


I have to see a man about a god

by Toastzombie



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: 1920s AU, Ancient Greek gods: the family who invented The Family, And you thought your family gatherings were awkward, Apollo and his terrible love life, Apollo's terrible poems, Artemis and her arktoi the ancient greek girl guides, Athena will end you with the power of legal technicalities, Dionysus and his flapper maenads, Gen, Hades and Persephone will be over the river temperancing the hell out of you, Hera the mob wife, Mobster AU, Muses just wanna have fun, They're bickering they must be in love!, This is what happens when nobody in the family talks about their feelings, Uncle Zeus the King of the south bank, mafia au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:16:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 43,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastzombie/pseuds/Toastzombie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's another four dead bodies in a city with Zeus as its unofficial king? Apollo just wants to be left alone with his poems and his latest broken heart. Unfortunately for him, Artemis has other ideas. Even more unfortunately, Athena's roped in a stranger to help him solve it. Apollo doesn't make the best first impression on Dionysus, but they've got bigger things to worry about as they race to catch the killer before he finds his next victim. As they pull the threads, a sordid history begins to unravel...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [havisham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/gifts).



> Notes: Dear Zeen, I hope you enjoy this fic! I’m sorry I couldn’t get Apollo and Dionysus together; this is the story of how they met, not how they became a couple. Thanks to your magnificent prompt for inspiring this, which my brain jumped on and ran with like a mad thing (unfortunately I first read ‘film noir’ as ‘roaring twenties’, but by the time I realised my mistake the damage was done).
> 
> Thanks must go to the internet for all my research, the ancient Greeks for creating such magnificently cracky mythology, and the website WrittenKitten.net, without which I would never have finished this.
> 
> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: this fic is set in a 1920s AU of ancient Greek mythology, and as such contains some 1920s racism and sexism, however the character who holds these views does get talked out of them. There are also mentions of violence, which I’ve warned for individually in each chapter.]

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s-era racism, 1920s-era sexism, discussion of murders, non-graphic discussion of corpses]

 

Apollo can hear his sister from two storeys away, shouting for him and letting innocent stairs and doors bear the brunt of her impatience. He puts his head under the pillow and pretends not to hear her pounding on the door until she knocks dust from the top. He pulls the blanket over his head and bears its prickles.

 

‘Polly, get up this minute!’ A suspicious silence. She will have pulled a pin from her hair, letting it fall into her eyes, which will not improve her temper. Sure enough, there’s a scrabbling in the lock and the door bursts open, admitting the uncharted wilderness that is Artemis. ‘Get up, Polly!’ she snaps, and steals his pillow and blanket.

 

‘Go away,’ he says as she stalks over to the windows. Then, ‘Oh, for the love of God, Arty, leave me alone!’, as she wrenches the curtains open and another unwanted guest bursts in. He puts his arm across his face but the sunbeams are already crawling over the walls and he only manages a dim gloom, not nearly enough to be properly melancholy. Then even that small comfort is yanked away by strong, impatient, loving fingers and he glares at Artemis, instigator of this rudeness, with bright eyes and hair spilling across her face and a mangled hairpin still clutched in her other hand. ‘I was _asleep,_ ’ he says.

 

‘You were sulking,’ she corrects him. ‘You’ve been sulking for two days now, Polly. Forget her and find another woman to moon over.’

 

‘I will _not!_ ’ He looks around for a convenient pillow and finds that Artemis, in a practised and underhanded move, has kicked them all away into a corner. ‘Leave me alone, Arty, I’m not in the mood for it today.’

 

‘And what are you going to do, sulk in your attic? She’s only one woman, Polly.’

 

‘You can’t possibly understand how I feel,’ he snaps. ‘You have a cold heart which will never know love.’

 

‘Of course I can,’ Arty says, ‘I’m still trying to work on _you_. Or doesn’t it count unless I write you a poem?’

 

There is that agony, again; she has a talent for hitting the target, even without trying. ‘Now you _are_ mocking me,’ he says, and pulls out of her grasp.

 

‘I don’t mean it, dear,’ she says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. ‘I just wish you wouldn’t sulk so.’

 

‘I don’t know what went _wrong_ ,’ he bursts out suddenly. ‘We talked, we danced. It seemed like hours! And then she wouldn’t answer any of my messages and she disappeared right after I read my poem! I don’t understand, Arty, does love make all girls flighty?’

 

‘Some, I suppose,’ she says. ‘And the poem...’

 

‘I worked on it for _days!_ ’ he says mournfully.

 

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘It was very, er, descriptive. And very... personal. Perhaps not quite the thing one normally reads to a room full of people. And Polly, did you really need to spend six lines describing her eyelashes?’

 

‘Oh, leave me alone in peace!’ he snaps, and turns his back to her. But Arty can hardly let her prey go that easily, and she pokes at his ribs mercilessly. ‘For heaven’s sake, Polly, stop sulking and distracting me! There’s been another murder!’

 

‘And?’ he retorts.

 

Arty cuffs him lightly across the back of the head. ‘Another _special_ murder. Don’t be dense. That makes four.’

 

‘And what does that have to do with me?’

 

‘You thought they were interesting,’ she says. ‘And Pal and I were talking and it turns out she knows someone who’s been following them too, and we think you two should investigate.’

 

‘What!’ That makes him twist around again. ‘Why _me?_ If you and _Pal_ think it’s so interesting, why can’t you look into it?’

 

‘We’re busy,’ Arty says, and doesn’t elaborate. ‘Come on, get dressed and come out to breakfast with me.’

 

‘No,’ he says. ‘If I am to win the heart of my love, I must abstain from all earthly distractions. I have enough food and water here.’ He gestures at the loaf of bread he has on his desk, ready to be eaten.

 

‘Bollocks to that.’ In a series of fluid movements Arty has slid off the bed, snatched up the bread, opened the window and tossed it outside before he can speak.

 

‘I was saving that!’ he says angrily.

 

‘It was quite blue with mould,’ she says airily. ‘Come on, Polly, anyone can sulk over bread and water. It takes true feelings to brood about love when you’re eating eggs and coffee.’

 

When she puts it like that, he can allow himself to feel hungry. He’ll only eat enough to sustain him, and he can get more bread on the way home. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re right,’ he says, because one must at least make a show of reluctance. Arty turns around while he gets dressed, tapping her foot all the while, and barely lets him finish buttoning his shirt before she splashes water in his face, drags a comb through his hair, throws him his jacket and hustles him out the door.

 

‘What’s all the rush?’ he protests half-heartedly as she drags him down the stairs.

 

‘We’re _late_. I told Pal that we’d be there at nine, and we’ll have to run.’

 

‘Why are we having breakfast with Athena?’ he says, aware now that at least part of his mind is no longer thinking of his lost love. Which is quite unacceptable.

 

‘Don’t you _listen?_ She’s bringing the other chap who’s been following the murders.’ She ensnares his arm with hers and pulls him out into the busy, sunlit streets of the city.

 

...

 

It's going on half past nine by the time they find the particular cafe Athena's chosen. Artemis, guided by impatience and her own particularly splendid brand of confidence, has turned them down the wrong street three times and is beginning to look truly put out. Her hair keeps falling into her eyes because she hasn't stopped to put the pin back in properly, and he sees her wince every time she shoves it back in and probably gets her scalp scratched for her trouble. The chaos and noise of the southern half of their city has woke him up but has not done very much to endear itself to him. He wants to be back in his little room with his poems, or failing that, to find the damn cafe and order the strongest thing on the menu to keep him awake through whatever lecture Athena has waiting for them. Arty's been clutching his arm harder and harder as the time drags on and they still haven't found it, but she loosens her deathgrip at last as they see striped umbrellas on the next corner. 'That must be it,' she says. 'Or I'm going home and she can find us herself.'

 

'Don't see why we couldn't meet at the house, or one of the little places around there,' he says, as he's thought ever since the first wrong turn.

 

'Apparently her contact lives around here,' Arty says absently.

 

'Here?' It's a valid question: they're so close to the river that he can smell the freshwater instead of the familiar salt. There are plenty of lively places for the clients coming across the river, but not much in the way of actual houses. He can't imagine how Athena got to meet anyone who lived here in the first place, so close to the river and the forbidden north bank. Even a place this close will be crawling with eyes.

 

'You don't think she's in some sort of trouble, do you?' he says more quietly, wishing he'd had the time to stow his knife.

 

'Pal? Hardly. She can defend herself if there's a raid, and I've got my old friend for us if things get rough.' She pats her thigh. He could never find the courage to keep a razor that close to sensitive flesh himself. 'Come on, Polly, even the feds aren't going to arrest us just for talking about a murder.'

 

'They might arrest us for being who we are and talking about a murder,' he says uneasily. He can even see the glitter of the river beyond the cafe, so close; too close.

 

'They could try,' Arty says, looking like she might almost relish it. 'Come on, let's go and meet this mystery fellow.'

 

'Wait a minute.' He takes the pin out of her hair and puts it back neatly. 'Now you don't look like so much of a wilderness.'

 

'But that's part of my disguise if the feds are watching,' she says, mock wide-eyed, and he can't help laughing as they round the corner at an easy stroll.

 

Athena is sitting at one of the outside tables right next to the docks, where the trade goes from one bank to the other despite - or perhaps in spite of - the prohibitive laws. She has a pen in her hand, and oh, good grief, she's been writing notes on little cards as though she's still the head of the debating team. She really is going to give a talk, he realises bleakly, and probably draw it out as revenge for them being so late. 'You found us at last,' she says, and the _us_ draws his attention to the man sitting next to her.

 

The man has been watching the river, and turns to look at them as they sit down. His first impression is: regular. Looks like he’s had a rough night. Not one of ours. New in town, one of the immigrants from the east. Lives on the south bank, wants to be on the north. Read the murder stories avidly to get aware from the tedium of being a bank clerk or something equally banal. Then he gets a look at the stranger's eyes, dark and shining as fresh coffee, and he starts to think again. Maybe he _is_ one of theirs. Good clothes, but rumpled. There's the start of a scar on the man's left wrist. Possibly a knife in the right sleeve, from the way he's holding it. The stranger holds his glance for a moment, then looks him up and down with a smirk tugging at his lips. He can hear Arty ordering them breakfast somewhere to his left. So: armed, may be one of theirs, good at looking new in town and taking advantage of it. Knows who they are. Knows Athena. Has taken an interesting in the murders because... he can't find an answer to that. Enough speculation.

 

'I don't think we've met,' he says. 'Apollo. My sister, Artemis.' Arty gives the stranger her best polite smile, which comforts him. He feels better not being the only one put off by Athena's latest find. It's probably the smirk that's doing it; Arty hates being laughed at. The man inclines his head politely, but has enough sense at least not to try to kiss her hand. Perhaps he's heard about the last cad who tried it.

 

'Pleased to meet you,' the stranger says, shaking his hand. It's a good shake, calculated to inspire trust so well that it could have come straight out of the textbook, if anyone had decided to write one. Has one of theirs taught him that, or did he work it out himself? 'Apollo,' the man repeats, looking thoughtful. He has enough of an accent to sound exotic, but the words are straight from a southbanker's mouth. Where on earth did Athena find him? 'I've heard that name before not long ago...' Their breakfast arrives, and the man suddenly looks suspicious. 'You're not the one who wrote that ghastly poem to Marpessa's eyebrows, are you?'

 

The connection is completely unexpected. 'You were at the club?' Apollo says stupidly, for lack of a better response.

 

'Not that night,' the man says, 'Although I wished I had been when I heard about it. Sounded like an entertaining evening all around.' The smirk grows.

 

Enough. He is not going to be humiliated by a stranger in front of his friends, especially when he can hear Arty snorting into her cup of coffee and undermining any appearance of sisterly support. 'And you are?' he says pointedly. Politeness be damned.

 

'Call me Dionysus,' the man says, looking amused.

 

'Oh,' Apollo says dismissively, 'Can't say I've heard that name before. Have you been here long?' In quick succession Dionysus' smirk turns rigid, Athena shoots him a glare, and he feels Arty's shoe dig into his ankle.

 

'Evidently not long enough to be admitted into your esteemed social set,' Dionysus says. 'My loss, of course, if I'm missing out on any more poetry recitals.'

 

'I'm not in the habit of sharing my poetry with rude strangers,' Apollo says, hand clenching around his fork.

 

'Funny, that,' Dionysus says coolly, 'I'm not in the habit of chasing after uninterested women. Perhaps things are different in this city of yours.'

 

'Why-- you--' Words desert him in his fury. How dare he-- to imply that he would ever-- he is going to knock the stuffing out of this smug-faced flat--

 

'For heaven's sake!' Athena says crossly. 'Stop acting like dogs long enough for me to at least explain what's going on.'

 

'That's unfair on the dogs,' Arty says, _sotto voce_.

 

'Peacocks, then,' Athena says impatiently. Dionysus rolls his eyes and goes back to looking at the river. Apollo concentrates on his scrambled eggs, shovelling them up with more force than strictly necessary. Athena has been arranging her cards for her blasted talk, and clears her throat. 'Now, the reason I've called you all here today-'

 

'We,' Arty mutters to her bacon.

 

'Why _we_ have called you here today,' Athena repeats patiently, 'Is to talk about these murders. I'm sure you're familiar with the first three, but the fourth was only found today and I want to go over all the details.' She places one of her cards on the table; not for her speech, he realises, but a note. In her tidy script he reads: _1st. 4th January. Middle-aged man. Found in street near the mine offices. Method of death: stabbed in heart. Dirt stuffed down throat after death. Costume jewellery pieces found in each hand._ 'That one caused a lot of comment, since they found the victim on the north bank,' she adds. 'The rest have been found in the south.' She puts the next card down.

 

 _2nd. 20th March. Man aged between thirty and forty. Method of death: stabbed in heart, salt water found in lungs. Found on the docks. Horseshoe found on string around neck._

 _3rd. 8th April. Woman aged around thirty. Method of death: stabbed in heart, large amounts of opium in stomach. Found near the markets. Pockets filled with grain._

 

'This is the one found yesterday.' _4th. 31st May. Woman aged around thirty. Method of death: stabbed in heart; evidence of puerperal fever. Found near the Southwestern Hospital. Both eyes covered by peacock feathers._

 

Athena has put the cards in order across the table. It seems strange, rather unfair to have an entire life reduced to a few words written in her hand, but there they are. 'So you see, there doesn't seem to be a pattern based on space or time, except only one was found on the north bank.'

 

'That's not strange, that's basic common sense,' Dionysus says. 'The north bank is crawling with eyes. Bloody stupid murderer, to leave one body there and keep leaving them where the feds are packed tight as sardines.'

 

'Yes, well,' Athena says crossly. 'In any case, none of the victims seem to have done anything to be warrant being murdered. The only thing that links them is the method of death and the strange way they were laid out. Apparently each death was instantaneous.'

 

'So it will turn out the culprit is a psychopath with a creative streak?' Dionysus says sceptically.

 

'Will you take this seriously for a moment?' Athena snaps at him. Apollo doesn't bother to hide his smile. Athena turns to him. 'And what do _you_ think?'

 

Caught off guard again, he looks at the notes. 'Are you sure they were actually murdered?' he says. 'Maybe they were all suicides trying to draw attention to some cause or another. You never can tell with those anarchists, or socialists, or whatever they call themselves.'

 

Athena glares at him. 'You too?'

 

'Will you at least try to think about this seriously?' Arty snaps at him. 'People are _dying_ , Polly.'

 

'And what do you want me to do about it?' he says. 'Join the feds?'

 

'You two should have a look into it,' Athena says flatly. 'Father isn't bothering himself with them. Why should he? They weren't anyone important to him, and there have been far more violent murders before. What's another four bodies?'

 

'And the feds are calling them all muggings gone wrong,' Arty says. 'If they took them seriously they'd have to start investigating every murder on the south bank, and that's far too much work for them. The papers thought the details were interesting but they couldn't find any leads to important people so they lost interest. But I think we ought to keep an eye on it. You'd be doing this for the family, Polly.'

 

When she puts it like that, with the stranger sitting right across from him, he can hardly refuse. 'All right,' he says resignedly. 'I'll look into it.'

 

'Two sets of eyes see more than one,' Athena corrects him. 'So we agreed that you two should look into it together.'

 

He looks at her in dismay; Dionysus looks equally appalled. 'I'll work better on my own,' the other man says.

 

'As will I,' he says, feeling like a parrot. Damn the man. He gestures at Dionysus irritably. 'I'm doing it for the family. Why does he have to be involved?'

 

He feels Arty's shoe dig into his foot again, but he ignores it. Dionysus looks at him coolly.

 

'It's my business,' he says, 'Because I found the first body.'

 

'So we'll just leave you to it,' Arty says, standing up before he can react.

 

'What?' Apollo and Dionysus chorus.

 

'I told you, we're busy,' Arty says briskly. 'I've got a new crop of Arktoi coming in a few weeks. Twenty girls, Polly, can you imagine it? So I've got uniforms to order, badges to plan, camps to arrange, you understand.' She doesn't sound remotely apologetic.

 

'Pal--' Dionysus says hopefully.

 

'Not a hope,' Athena cuts him off. 'I've got a campaign to run and pamphlets to proofread. I've told you half a hundred times that I'd be busy with the NWP. You can keep the notes,' she gestures at the pieces of card on the table, 'and give them back when you've solved the whole business.'

 

'With the two of you working on it you shouldn't be long,' Arty says. 'Tell you what, we'll throw you a party if you finish it by the end of the week.' And they saunter off up the street, arm in arm and radiating triumph.

 

Apollo and Dionysus watch them until they turn the corner, united in indignation at being the object of female schemes. 'I can't help thinking that we've been properly sewn up,' Dionysus says, looking pained. 'Is she always like that?'

 

'What, Athena?' Apollo says, realising belatedly that the girls have left them with the bill, to add insult to injury. 'No, she used to be a complete bookworm until she joined her women's club--'

 

'Not Pal,' Dionysus says impatiently, 'I can deal with Pal; I just promise to hand out pamphlets to my friends and she'll forgive anything, and I can always hide in the clubs if she's really cross. But Artemis looks ready to punch you if you annoy her enough, and then chase you down as you run away and punch you again.'

 

'Arty only punches the deserving,' he says crossly. 'How do you know Athena, anyway?'

 

'Found her in front of one of the dancehalls trying to hand out pamphlets,' Dionysus says fondly. 'I told her that she'd never convert anyone if she kept writing them so densely, and she challenged me to do better. So I took one home, struck out half the words and replaced the others with more interesting ones, and brought it back to her. We spent a week sending each other drafts back and forth before we agreed on the words, and I said I'd leave some around the clubs. And she's been interfering with my life ever since.'

 

'And do they work?' he says, interested despite himself.

 

Dionysus shrugs. 'Some girls pick them up, some don't. Pal's problem is that she writes pamphlets to convince the senators, and she forgets that most women aren't interested in legal technicalities. So I put a bit of excitement into them to get enough women interested to actually vote and make the laws pass.' He rubs at his eyes. 'But enough of that. She's going to pester me until I bring her notes back and write a complete report of how the mystery was solved, so we'd better make a start of solving it.'

 

' _We?_ ' Apollo says acidly. 'I thought you worked better alone.'

 

'I do,' Dionysus says drily. 'But I know when I'm beaten. Clearly you haven't been on the receiving end of one of Pal's lectures.'

 

'And clearly you've never had Arty poke you with hairpins until you give her what she wants,' Apollo says. He sighs. 'I think we'll need more coffee.'

 

'I need something stronger than coffee,' Dionysus mutters as he beckons the waiter over, but he orders more of it all the same.

 

'Steady on,' Apollo says. 'It's not even noon. I'm not working on a serious matter with a man who's completely fried before lunchtime.'

 

Dionysus scowls. 'It's all extremes with you, isn't it?' he says irritably. 'Family or stranger, sober or roaring drunk. My favourite drink,' he says delicately as the coffee arrives, 'Helps me think, in small doses. You _do_ know the drink I'm talking about, don't you?'

 

'Of course I do!' Apollo snaps.

 

'All right,' Dionysus says placatingly. 'Just checking. And you _have_ drunk it yourself, haven't you?'

 

'You'll forgive me for not finding your jibes amusing,' Apollo says. 'Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.'

 

'And yet the hardest to get right,' Dionysus says, relaxing into a good mood again. Apollo doesn't trust a man that slides from mood to mood so easily. It speaks of weakness of character, and he's determined to be professional about this investigation. Nonetheless, Dionysus has a point about the combined power of Arty and Athena, and it seems the best idea would be to find the culprit quickly so he doesn't have to deal with this strange man any more than necessary. Maybe Arty will leave him in peace with his poems after that.

 

'Well, come on,' he says, leaning over to look at Athena's notes. 'We'd better go through them again one by one.'

 

...

 

Two hours and more coffee later, they have gone through the four cases in mind-numbing detail and even, in a show of enthusiasm that will probably make Athena faint, made more notes on her cards. Unfortunately, no breakthroughs have made themselves clear, and his head is starting to spin as Dionysus, looking rather pained in the glare of the midday sun, is telling yet again how he found the first body.

 

'I was on my way back to the river in the early morning,' he says in a bored voice. 'Call it four or five in the morning, and it was cloudy, so the light wasn't good. I would have gone right by him if he hadn't been in the middle of the street.'

 

'And there weren't any...' Apollo gestures, not finding the word immediately, 'You know, signs he'd been moved? Marks, or anything?'

 

'No, I've already told you that,' Dionysus says crossly. 'No signs he'd been moved, and no blood trail, so I suppose he was killed right there. I thought he was a bum or a drunk at first, but he didn't wake up when I tripped over him. And he was very cold, so he must have been there for a while, a few hours at least.'

 

'And nobody saw the killer?'

 

'The north bank is practically lifeless after dark,' Dionysus says. 'All of them go home at the end of the day and don't go out again until the sun rises, except for the feds. They must have the most dreary lives.'

 

'So you found the body?' Apollo says. 'What next?'

 

'One of the feds turned the corner just as I fell over him,' Dionysus says. 'Came to investigate and we both found he was dead. We thought he'd suffocated from the dirt at first, but we rolled him over and found the blood on the ground. I think he'd been stabbed in the back,' he says suddenly, looking thoughtful. 'It had bled a lot but it was a clean wound, you know, it must have been over for the poor fellow very fast. I suppose it was the least whoever killed him could do.'

 

'Yes, very decent of him,' Apollo says absently. An idea is beginning to form, but he can't catch it properly. 'And then what?'

 

'Well, I had to go and answer all their questions,' Dionysus continues. 'They thought I did it for a while, but he was dead long before I fell over him and there was no blood on my clothes. They looked for the knife but from the wound it was a very ordinary shape, you know, the sort you find in every kitchen. So they let me go, and thankfully I got away before the press got a hold of it.' He frowns. 'Are you listening, or have I just told it again for nothing?'

 

Apollo looks up from the cards impatiently. 'I'm checking something,' he says. 'You said he'd been stabbed from behind?'

 

'Yes,' Dionysus sighs.

 

'And Athena's notes-- look, here-- it says the next victim was stabbed too.'

 

'Yes,' Dionysus says again, propping his head up with his arm. 'They were all stabbed, in the heart. And?'

 

'She's quoted the newspaper article here: "stabbed in the heart, apparently from behind"' Apollo reads. 'And look, the next one: "stabbed from behind, in the heart". And I'll bet anything the latest one was stabbed from behind too.'

 

'That's hardly news,' Dionysus says. 'It makes sense to stab someone from behind; if you botch it and they survive, they can't tell the feds what you look like. And anyone with sense would aim for the heart.'

 

'But from behind?' Apollo says sceptically. 'It's not easy to find the heart from the back, and all these murders were very precise, just one stab and that's it. Probably the same murder weapon.'

 

'Or hundreds like it,' Dionysus mutters.

 

'The point _is_ ,' Apollo overrides him, 'Whoever murdered these people wanted to make sure they died instantly, almost without pain. Why would he go and kill them and then make sure they barely felt it? It's as if he felt they hadn't done anything to deserve being killed at all.'

 

'They must have done something,' Dionysus says irritably. 'Everybody's done _something_. I should go and talk to the relatives again and see what the victims were up to.' He pauses as the waiter pointedly takes their coffee cups away. 'And perhaps we shouldn't be talking about murder in broad daylight with the feds only a skip across the river.'

 

'That's your fault for choosing the place,' Apollo says crossly.

 

Dionysus blinks at him. 'I didn't choose it. Pal did. I can't imagine why, unless she wants us both arrested for...' He breaks off suddenly, shaking his head in disbelief.

 

'Unless _what?_ ' Apollo demands.

 

'Damn and blast her, she's more wily than I thought,' Dionysus says, looking furious. 'We've been here for a good two hours, talking about murders with the feds within shouting distance in front of any number of witnesses. A known associate of the king of the south bank, and the man who found the first body, talking about murder in broad daylight.'

 

Apollo puts his head in his hands as the realisation sinks in. 'They're going to think we did it, aren't they?' he moans.

 

'Unless we sort the whole business out before another one happens,' Dionysus says. 'She's got us well and truly stitched up. I think I'd rather take a punch from Artemis.'

 

'Don't say that until you've tried it,' Apollo says, rubbing his jaw in sympathy. 'What are we going to do?'

 

'Apart from lock Pal in her library until she starves?' Dionysus snaps. 'I'm going to throttle her the next time I see her--'

 

'Keep your voice down!' Apollo hisses, looking around. 'If you keep on with that and the king hears you threatening his favourite daughter, the feds are going to be the least of your problems.' Dionysus looks enraged, then pulls himself together.

 

'Well,' he says in a quieter voice. 'Like I said, I'll go and speak to the relatives again and see what Pal missed in her notes. I don't think we should be seen together for a while.'

 

'Good point,' Apollo concedes. 'I'll go and chase Athena down and see if there's anything we missed in her library. I'm on Delos Street, if you need to find me.'

 

'I'm above the Bacchanalia, if you need to find me,' Dionysus says. 'It's down near the docks.' They look at each other awkwardly for a moment.

 

'Good luck, then,' Apollo says, offering his hand.

 

'Don't you dare!' Dionysus snaps, standing up so fast that his chair turns over. 'Then they really will blame us if someone else gets murdered.' He straightens his clothes, then sets off into the busy street.

 

Apollo scowls, tips the waiter extra, and leaves in the opposite direction. He probably has a point, but it smacks of rudeness and spite. It's probably for the best that it looks as though they fought, but he could have given a little warning. He sighs and begins to make his way home, already feeling out of his depth.

 

That night he eats tea and toast made with a fresh loaf of bread. He tries to work on his poems, but the words keep turning into Athena's notes, and he goes to sleep with 'stabbed from behind, stabbed from behind' turning around and around in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Arktoi (‘she-bears’) were real, although probably not quite the equivalent of girl guides. Athena’s nickname comes from one of her other names, Pallas. The NWP is the National Women’s Party, which lobbied for women’s rights in the US in the 1920s. Apollo’s terrible luck with women is all in the myths. I’ve also fallen back on that old standby of AUs, the nameless city analogous to a major US city on the east coast.
> 
> About Dionysus: in Greek mythology Dionysus is presented as the other. His mother comes from either Ethiopia or Asia Minor (modern Turkey) and he’s often interpreted as a local god absorbed into the Greek pantheon. His followers are generally on the edges of society, such as women, and the Greeks seem not to have trusted him entirely because of the effect he has on women (the wild maenads and orgies and etc). Based on Dionysus being coded Other and demographics in the US in the 1920s I made him a POC in this fic (more specifically, of mixed Caucasian/Middle-Eastern descent). I’ve tried my best to write this fic carefully with the racism of the 1920s in mind, but if anyone finds this offensive please tell me and I’ll do my best to fix it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, infidelity]

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, infidelity]

 

The days drag by. Apollo finds that he has a lot of time to devote to be properly lovesick, and that it becomes very boring after a few hours. After they agreed on limited contact, he receives only one message from Dionysus, delivered courtesy of a boy that he tips extra. It is short and abrupt; presumably Dionysus is wary of it being intercepted. The message only says that he has looked again and found that none of the victims had a lily-white conscience, but neither had any of them done something bad enough to warrant being murdered. That leaves them with next to nothing to go on, and he's beginning to wonder if there's any connection between the murders at all. Stabbing isn't exactly a rare way to die on the south bank, although a little odd across the river, where they prefer to kill you through laws or finances or other boring methods. Maybe Athena is making the whole story up. Maybe she’s set them up because they've unwittingly done something to annoy her, although he can't think what.

 

He reads the notes again, tries to work on his poems or at least a letter properly expressing his devotion, and gives up after a whole afternoon has only filled the wastepaper basket. He even goes out in the evenings, but he's never been much for parties. The drinks don't help his mind, however much Dionysus might swear by them, and none of the girls he sees can hold a candle to Marpessa. And so things go on in this fashion until, desperate for something to do, he loiters around Arty's office in the Arktoi hall until she crossly tells him to make himself useful.

 

'I can't concentrate with you hanging around like a kicked puppy,' she snaps when he lingers in her doorway for the third time. 'Don't you have anything better to do?'

 

'Not at the moment,' he says with a shrug. Perhaps some sort of menial work will help him think. 'What do you want me to do? Sweep the floors, stack chairs?'

 

'The girls are learning how,' Arty says absently. 'Look, if you really want something to do you can find yourself a quiet corner and finish these for me.' She pulls out two paper bags, one much larger than the other. The first is full of blouses, and the second turns out to be full of badges - some sort of logo, he assumes, looking at the bear and crescent moon.

 

'What are these?' he says, look at them in bewilderment.

 

'Uniforms, of course,' Arty says, not looking up from her latest form. 'Official Arktoi uniforms for our latest group of girls, as soon as you've sewn on the badge. Be a good sport and get cracking.'

 

'Arty,' he says determinedly, 'I am _not_ going to waste my time sewing badges.'

 

'And what _are_ you going to do?' she says tartly. 'Write poems? Try to solve the murders? Or have they bored you already?'

 

'No,' he admits, 'We've hit a dead end.'

 

'Then turn around and find another way,' Arty says with her usual amount of sympathy.

 

'It's not that easy,' he protests.

 

'Then start sewing,' Arty says. 'Badges or murders, it's up to you but for heaven's sake, Polly, stop distracting me.' She rummages in her desk drawer, finds a needle and spool of thread, and thrusts them at him in a rather alarming way.

 

'I'm not sure I remember how to sew,' he says as a last resort.

 

'Of course you do. I taught you how that summer it poured rain for a week.' Her face draws in; she suddenly looks very vulnerable. 'Polly, if you're not doing anything else, will you _please_ do this for me? I'm so busy.' He remembers her crowing about having twenty girls sign up for her group when only one enrolled the year she started it, and wonders if she regrets it. Then he remembers how angry and bored she used to be every summer, and how she rambles on and on about taking her girls hiking in bogs or wherever they go. If it makes one less thing for her to worry about, he supposes he can spend his time sewing instead of sweeping the floor or whatever else she might have had in mind, even he can't really understand the logic of it. Sewing is a skill her girls will need later in life, and stacking chairs and getting halls ready is not going to be so important. 'Well, all right,' he says, and pulls out the first blouse.

 

'Good man,' Arty says, her confidence dropping back down to armour her, as it always has. 'On the left shoulder, and make sure they're on nice and tight. And be careful not to sew them upside down.'

 

'That was _once_ ,' he protests.

 

'And let's keep it that way,' his sister says decidedly. Apollo gives up and pulls out the first badge. At least it's a circle, and should be fairly simple.

 

After he has dug the needle into his finger for the third time, he asks humbly if she has any thimbles. 'Soft,' Arty snorts, but she finds one in her desk and hands it over anyway.

 

'You wouldn't want blood on the shirts, would you?' he says innocently.

 

'Oh, they're not going to notice a bit of blood after we've gone camping,' Arty says dismissively. Apollo wonders what on earth she has planned for her girls, and she continues, 'They're going to have sweat and mud and pond water all over them by the time we've finished. Let me see,' she demands as he finishes the first blouse. She takes the badge and tugs it quite sharply, to his horror, but the stitches hold. 'Good,' she says. 'Keep at it.'

 

'Are you sure?' he says. 'It's not very, you know, pretty,' as he pictures the intricate patterns on women's dresses.

 

'I don't care if they're pretty, I just want them to be strong,' Arty says impatiently, and he wonders if she takes that sort of attitude to her girls. 'That's good. Now get going on the next one.'

 

'How many are there?' he says, looking in the bag with dismay.

 

'Not that many,' Arty says. 'I did five before I had to go and deal with all this paperwork, and you've done one. I ordered twenty shirts.'

 

'Fourteen more?' he moans. 'I _am_ going to be here all night.'

 

'And you had plans?' Arty says, eyebrows arched. 'Were you going to try staying up all night and being useless for anything in the morning, like Pal's mysterious find?'

 

He scowls, reminded yet again that they haven't made any headway. 'Dionysus and I are not speaking right now,' he says shortly.

 

Arty sighs sharply and puts her pen down, giving him her full attention. 'I'd like to say I'm surprised, but I'm not anything of the sort after the way you talked to him. You can't just _ask_ where people come from, Polly. He could have grown up two streets away from us.'

 

'I think we'd recognise him if he had,' he says drily.

 

Arty slams her hand on the table, making his needle jerk in the cloth. 'Can't you hear how much of a prig you sound when you say that? Who cares if he's foreign? He's probably got the feds trailing him because they have the same ideas as you, and he still came and told us what he knew. And then you had to go and botch it.' She rubs at her temples.

 

'All right,' he says, 'Even if you're right and he has grown up here, that doesn't make him trustworthy. He's not family, and for all we know he could be an informer.'

 

'Why would he come and tell us all his real name and let us see what he looks like if he was informing on us?' Arty demands. 'He could have sent messages instead.'

 

'How do we know Dionysus is even his real name?' he retorts.

 

'You are intolerable!' Arty snaps.

 

'Why do you care about this so much?' he snaps back.

 

'Because nobody else does!' Arty says angrily. 'Those people did nothing to deserve being murdered and they're dead! And do the feds care? Of course not, they were southbankers, they were practically asking for it. And does Uncle care? Of course not, they're nothing to do with business. But they died on our turf and we should have protected them.' She runs a hand through her hair, setting the pins all crooked.

 

'We?' he repeats.

 

'Pal's worried,' Arty says, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. 'She thinks that if whoever did this sees that nobody cares about the murders, they might start getting more confident. And pick bigger targets. Do you know what I mean?'

 

He does, suddenly. 'They couldn't possibly go after Uncle,' he says, trying to sound assured. 'He must have hundreds of men--'

 

'And he's made plenty of enemies,' Arty breaks in. 'And I'm sorry to say not all of his underlings are as loyal as they should be. Imagine it, Polly, if the murderer does manage to take him out?' She waits for him to follow the chain of events, and nods at his aghast look. 'Exactly. Shootings in the street, any number of petty chiefs fighting for the crown, the feds all over the south bank. And whatever we managed to build will be gone.'

 

They sit in silence for a moment, picturing a potential lawless south bank. The fact is that Uncle's rule has been unfair at times and cruel at others, but most of all it has been _stable_. If trouble comes, they deal with it themselves, and the feds generally leave them alone apart from the obligatory liquor raid every week or so. The south bank is practically a separate city now, and Uncle has styled himself its mayor. And the idea that the murders of people who were only small cogs in a great machine could lead to such chaos... he shivers a little, as though the world itself has trembled. It's not even the deed itself, he realises. The world can tremble even when people only _think_ such a thing is possible.

 

'Athena thinks we need to sort this out before it gets out of control,' he says quietly.

 

'Yes,' Arty agrees. ' _Now_ do you see why you should go and apologise to Dionysus and get cracking on the murders?'

 

'What-- that's not why we're not talking!' he says. The story comes spilling out. 'If Athena wants this cleaned up, she shouldn't have set us up to be tailed by the feds,' he finishes. 'We decided it was better not to be seen together for a while.'

 

Arty has her head in her hands. 'Too clever for her own good,' she mutters. 'I thought she was meant to be the idealistic one.' She sighs. 'I suppose if the feds _are_ tailing you, Uncle's goons will notice and put up more men around him, so it's partly what we want.'

 

'And how are we meant to catch the murderer if we have feds breathing down our necks?' he demands, throwing his hands up in frustration.

 

'Find better meeting places,' Arty says bluntly.

 

'If you're not going to help me, I'm done helping you,' he says, throwing the blouse down and getting to his feet.

 

'And where do you think you're going?' Arty says sharply.

 

'To find Dionysus and get this sorted out,' he says over his shoulder.

 

'No, you're not,' Arty says.

 

He turns around again, glaring at her. 'What, now you _don't_ want us to fix this mess?'

 

'It's Saturday, in case you've forgotten,' Arty says. 'If you go and find Dionysus now you won't get home until after midnight, and you'll be a complete mess tomorrow morning.'

 

'And?' he says impatiently. He's not an evening person and he can be surly when he's had a long night, but that's hardly important--

 

'Tomorrow is Sunday,' Arty says, maddeningly obtuse. 'The _first_ Sunday.'

 

Oh, hell. 'All right,' he says, turning back and dropping into the chair again. Damn the First Sunday tradition and all it entails. 'I'll go and speak to Dionysus first thing on Monday.'

 

'I'm not any happier about the delay than you,' Arty says, looking nauseated at the prospect of polite conversation around the dinner table. 'But we'll have to endure it.' She rests her chin on her hands. 'You can go, if you want,' she says absently, looking at another sheet of figures, 'I'll get one of the girls to finish the uniforms.'

 

'Then you'll be here all night and _you'll_ be surly tomorrow,' he says mildly. 'Well, surlier.' Arty flicks her pen at him, which he hands back politely, and picks up the shirt again. Arty goes to the doorway and calls one of her underlings, who comes back with some apparently important paperwork, and two cups of tea. He is relieved that she teaches her girls how to do that, at least. The girl also brings them a tin of biscuits, and he thanks her politely, but she practically skips out the door when Arty looks up from her latest file and smiles at her.

 

'They adore you,' he says.

 

'Oh, I don't know about that,' Arty says with her usual breeziness. But she looks fond, and he decides that caring about her girls, as opposed to things with fur or feathers, is an improvement. Perhaps one of these days she'll even find someone to marry.

 

He keeps sewing and Arty keeps at her paperwork until they both finish. He can hardly believe that he managed to sew fourteen shirts, and half wants to shout it to the world. He and Arty are home by nine o'clock, which ought to be respectable enough for anyone. Then he remembers Uncle's wife, and grits his teeth at the thought of Sunday dinner with the family.

 

...

 

He is glad on Sunday morning that they both got home so early. The service always starts at ten o'clock sharp and it takes them at least an hour, walking and by the streetcar, to reach the house with its high walls and be let in by suspicious guards. They have to be careful to walk slowly, lest they turn up in front of Hera sweaty and bedraggled and give her reasons to cut them out of her circle. Despite all the bother, the early mornings and the stiff, formal clothes, the interminable church service and the even longer dinner, Hera's favour is a thing worth having. Arty, whose natural walk is a quick march, soon grows bored of plodding along, but they decided early on that it was better off not to have the general family know exactly where they live, and politely refused offers of a lift in one car or another. Not that he doubts for a moment that Hera or Uncle know exactly where they live, but it may take their children a little longer to find it out. Perhaps he's burning his bridges, but he doesn't want to be very close to their children.

 

When they're brought in through the side gate, after a brief pat down by the guards (who look apologetic more than anything, but rules are rules, and have been since they started coming here), it's to find most of the family assembled already. They go and pay their respects to Uncle and Hera first, polite and meek, and she lets them move on after a cursory glance at their clothes. Uncle claps a hand on his shoulder and manages a kiss for Arty, which she bears with a fixed smile, but Hera has his arm securely linked through hers and they move away quickly. The others give them brief nods and return to their conversations, or to seek hangover cures in silence. The morning has not been kind to all of them: Ares' eyes are more bloodshot than usual, and Aphrodite's smile is particularly glassy. He can see Hephaistos gamely struggling to cope with the weight of his wife and his lame leg. The others look merely bored, tired or cold, the formal clothes not much of a defence against the early morning. Of all the people assembled there, only Hera and Herakles look truly awake. He watches the man laugh, his arm around his wife's waist, and thinks that there may be a struggle even if he and Dionysus catch the murderer. It's plain to anyone with eyes that Herakles is his father's son, and that Ares, the apparent heir, has noticed. He wonders what life would be like with a normal family, and can't imagine it.

 

Athena strolls through the gates as the clock strikes ten. Hera sweeps her away to her place in the progression, eyes narrowed, but she won't say anything to the apple of her husband's eye. They fall in line behind her, walking two by two in silence through the chapel doors and taking their appointed seats.

 

The chapel is old stone, chilly in the morning and with an unpleasant damp air. When the doors are closed it shuts almost all sound from the outside world out, as though the universe really has shrunk to the world of the priests and their holy books. And yet it can't be so very old, because Uncle had it built here, on the eastern side of the house, after he took control of business.

 

He and Arty are the newest members of the official family, for all that they've been coming here for ten years. They come last in the procession, saving the guards flanking them discretely, and they have the seats furthest from the pulpit. Any sort of sound carries in the chapel, so the air is heavy with the breaths of twenty-odd people magnified, but they can exchange looks whenever they want. They can also watch everyone else without being watched themselves, which amuses them. He sees Uncle sit up again from a slump after Hera, back ramrod straight, nudges him. Athena is sitting quietly, but beside her Eris and Eileithyia are swinging their legs back and forth. At thirteen and fifteen they should at least know to pretend to be listening, but he doubts that anyone could keep Eris still. Herakles is also restless, turning to look at the windows, the priest, his wife, and back between them. Ares and Aphrodite are giving each other sidelong looks across the space between the pews, and he could almost feel sorry for Hephaistos. Poseidon must be almost falling asleep, from the pointed glances the priest keeps giving him, and his wife is picking at her nails. All in all, not much of a show of faith, but perhaps Hera has enough faith for all of them. Or perhaps Hera doesn't have faith either, but understands the need to _appear_ faithful. If Hera has taught this family anything, it's how to appear respectable, and how to value respectability.

 

They stand for the last hymn as the sun breaks through the clouds and blinds them all through the window. He mouths the words and with another blessing they are finally free to leave. Hera leads the way out, Uncle firmly in tow. They leave the priest to clean his chapel, undisturbed by such a large gathering for another month. He feels rather sorry for Hera's children, who have to go through this sort of thing every week. He and Arty lag behind the rest of the family, each privately hoping to avoid being dragged into the polite conversation, but Hera is merciless. She sends Arty off with Athena and her own daughters, and escorts him firmly over to the larger group.

 

Apollo smiles and nods at the general conversation, and wishes he were somewhere else. Arty might rail at being grouped with Hera's daughters and deemed too innocent for conversation with married couples, but at least she has Athena to talk to. To his surprise, Aphrodite detaches herself from her husband's side to put her arm around him. He can see Ares glaring at them from where Zeus is holding his own little court with Herakles and his more trusted underlings, and tries to look as innocent as possible.

 

'Apollo, dear,' Aphrodite says, patting his shoulder with her other hand, 'I wanted to say I'm terribly sorry to hear about that business in the club with Marpessa.' The blow comes as a surprise and he inhales a little; he has not thought about her for a few days. He thinks of his poems, neglected in his attic, and wonders if she will ever take him back after he has proved such a negligent lover. He must be looking appropriately downcast because Aphrodite says, 'Oh, dear, I haven't hurt you even more, have I?' and he has to hastily reassure her that he is bearing up as well as he can under the circumstances. Then Hebe, who is probably trying to be kind, asks him what else he has been doing with himself, and his mind freezes at the idea of telling them about the murders. If any sort of word about it got out, Ares and Herakles would be fighting each other to be the first to bring the murderer back to Uncle's justice. And as for what they might do to Dionysus, or to him for getting a stranger involved in family business...

 

Hebe and Aphrodite are looking at him in concern. He takes a deep breath, puts all thought of the murders out of his mind, and tells them about his poems instead. They listen and make appropriate cooing noises, and he can see Arty shaking her head at him. Dionysus had better be grateful that he is playing the lovesick fool for the whole family to see. After an hour of looking pained and attempting to change the subject, which the women interpret as trying to put on a brave face and leads them to try to comfort him even more, Hera finally calls them in for dinner and Arty rescues him. 'How are you holding up?' he says quietly.

 

'Nothing but bloody horses,' Arty says, rolling her eyes. 'Horses this and horses that, and all that fancy talk about what colour they are, and I couldn't get a private word with Pal at all. Pity the poor beast that has to bear Eris.'

 

'Yes, indeed,' he says. The image of Eris with a whip is not pleasant.

 

'What about you?' Arty says. 'What did you say to have Aphrodite hanging off your arm for the best part of an hour? You'll be lucky if Ares doesn't try to kill you with the carving knife.'

 

'Then I'm lucky that Uncle always carves,' he says. 'She got me talking about Marpessa, if you must know.'

 

'Are you _still_ wallowing?' Arty says exasperatedly as Aphrodite passes them and gives him a cheer-up-old-fellow sort of smile.

 

'What else was I going to talk about?' he hisses. 'I can't tell them about--'

 

'Yes, I see,' Arty agrees quickly. 'Well done, taking one for the team like that. We'd better go in.' They follow Aphrodite into the house. As they wait to go through the door he turns around to find Herakles and Hebe just behind them.

 

'Trouble with love, eh?' Herakles says. Perhaps he too is trying to be kind, but he has the kind of voice that can carry halfway across the city. 'Don't worry, old chap, you'll find another girl. Plenty of fish in the sea, eh?' Herakles' hand comes down on his shoulder like a thunderclap, and Apollo stands aside to let them pass, mainly because he's not sure if he can still move.

 

Yes, he thinks, trying to loosen his shoulder as Arty tows him into the dining room, definitely Uncle's son.

 

...

 

They take their seats at the table and applaud politely, as is traditional, as Hestia brings in the roast beef. She's never come to a service that he can remember, but perhaps even Hera understands the importance of good food. Uncle carves the beef and offers the first piece to her, as always. She sits beside Poseidon and after that she seems to fade into the background. He can't ever remember her speaking, but perhaps all the cooking exhausts her. He wonders if she wants an apprentice.

 

The First Sunday is always a large party, and this time everyone is there. Uncle is at the head of the table, with Hera on his right hand. Eris and Eileithyia are at the very end, in their own private horsey world. Between them the various family members have jockeyed for position: Athena is on Uncle's left hand, with Herakles and Hebe beside her, and after them Poseidon, Amphitrite, and Hestia. On the other side Ares is next to Hera, and Aphrodite is hanging onto his arm while Hephaistos sits next to her, chewing solidly. He and Arty have managed to sit next to each other about two-thirds down, and do their best to eat a polite amount of food. Hera surveys the table, watching everyone and gesturing to various maids whenever their plates are empty. Uncle is paying little attention to anyone except Athena and Herakles, gesturing with his fork; he sees Hera wince. Apparently Athena has been talking to him about her work. 'But Father,' he hears her say, 'How can women make any politican listen to our demands if we can't threaten to vote them out of office?'

 

Hera frowns at that. He's not sure if she approves of the topic itself or the use of that particular word: Athena is the only one, out of all of Zeus’ innumerable bastards, to have the privilege of calling him her father. Even Herakles still refers to him as Uncle. He wonders how Hera's children feel, seeing Athena sitting so close to their father. But Uncle has always treated monogamy as something that applies to other people, and Hera must have known that when she married him. And of course she didn't have to invite Athena here, or any of her husband's children; there must be dozens if not hundreds by now. Hera takes them in for a reason.

 

Hera knows that any one of her husband's bastards might rise up against him, remembering distant family history as her husband does not. So she finds each and every one of them, however far away they may be, and brings them into the city. She boards them out to various people, to raise them and perhaps even love them, and when they have grown enough she puts them to work for the family business. Some she even invites into the family home, but only if they have a special talent, something that is useful for her husband’s empire. She must have picked up on Athena immediately, for the brain ticking like a clock in her head. Apollo's still not sure what she chose him and Arty for, but it's not wise to refuse Hera. He imagines that it must almost be a relief for the mothers of Uncle’s children, the father long gone, to have this regal, commanding woman come to them and explain, kindly, how all this can go away and be forgotten and how they can move on with their lives. He's never heard of anyone refusing her offer. He also recognises the bitter irony of Hera raising Uncle’s children to be faithful to a man who barely remembers the meaning of the word.

 

A servant whispers in Hera's ear; she excuses herself and leaves the room, returning a minute later with a newcomer to the table. The woman is tall and dressed in dark green, when she takes her hat off her blonde hair falls down to her waist, unpinned. He doesn't recognise her, and he can see the younger generation exchanging puzzled looks. Only Athena nods to herself. But Uncle and Poseidon and even Hestia stand up to greet her as though she's an old friend, and Hera guides the woman down to their end of the table.

 

'Move down, Polly,' Arty says quickly.

 

'Oh, no, don't get up for me,' the woman says quickly, sitting down next to him before he can move. Hera bends down to talk to her, quietly. He hears 'just me, I'm afraid' and Hera pats the woman's shoulder gently, looking sympathetic. She catches his eye as she straightens up, and he swallows hastily. 'This is Demeter, my sister,' she says to him. 'I don't believe you've met before. Demeter, this is Apollo, Artemis.'

 

'Pleased to meet you,' he says politely, shaking Demeter's hand as gently as possible. Her hands are tanned and callused, but she seems as though she'll break in an instant, full of nervous energy. She looks utterly overwrought, and he wonders what it's costing her to sit here with strangers.

 

'Potatoes?' Arty says kindly, passing them down. They pass other dishes to her, but she politely refuses the meat. Ah, he thinks, vegetarian, probably anaemic. No wonder she looks so pale. Demeter eats quietly, and he goes back to his own food.

 

'Sorry-- Apollo, isn't it?' she says suddenly. 'How do you know Zeus and Hera, if you don't mind me asking?'

 

'Zeus is our uncle,' he says carefully. 'Artemis and I, that is. We're brother and sister.'

 

'I see,' Demeter says, a flash of understanding in her eyes. 'And what do you do?'

 

Perhaps talking will make her feel better; he can't help feeling sympathy for this woman, who seems to radiate fresh grief. 'I'm a poet,' he says.

 

'Oh?' Demeter says politely. She's probably wondering why on earth Hera needs a poet in the family's inner circle.

 

'Mostly he lies in bed feeling sorry for himself,' Arty says briskly. 'He's lovesick right now, you see.'

 

Apollo grits his teeth and prepares for another show of sympathy, but Demeter only says, 'Well, it happens to us all, I suppose.'

 

'Not me,' Arty says airily, buttering a roll.

 

'Hang on,' he says, 'What about that chap-- Orion, wasn't it? He was quite sweet on you--'

 

'Well, whatever he was,' Arty says tartly, 'You ended that very quickly for both of us, didn't you?' She bites into her roll savagely.

 

'Ah,' Demeter says quietly, 'You're lucky to have such a caring older brother.' She looks wistful.

 

'Actually, I'm a minute older,' Arty says. 'I'm the one looking after Polly, if he lets me.'

 

'And what do you do with yourself, Artemis?' Demeter says. She sounds more confident, more grounded talking to another woman. He can begin to see the resemblance between her and Hera.

 

'Right now, I'm getting ready for my Arktoi,' Arty says. Demeter looks intrigued and Arty promptly tells her everything about her little organisation, from the uniforms to the camping to the mottos she's making for her girls. Demeter smiles fondly, until Arty starts talking about letting the older girls plan their own camps. The blood drains from her face. 'Don't let them go off alone!' she says suddenly.

 

Arty looks at her in confusion for a moment. 'Of course we won't let them go off completely alone,' she agrees. 'I'll be out with them, and other organisers, but they'll plan the route and find the camping places.'

 

'Good,' Demeter says, breathing quickly, 'Good.' She looks distressed again. 'I'm sorry,' she says tiredly, 'I've had rather a bad day, that's all. Up at dawn to feed all the animals - I'm out in the country, you see - and then I had to drive all the way in here--'

 

'Of course,' Arty says gently. 'Can I get you something else to eat? Or a drink?'

 

'No, no thank-you,' Demeter says. 'I'm sorry, it's nothing you've done... I have a daughter, you see, and hearing you talk about your girls reminds me of how long it's been since I last saw her. She would have loved to go with them.' She stares at her plate. 'I miss her,' she says haltingly. 'So much. I wish--' she falls silent, biting her lip. He sees her turn her head just a little to look at the two empty places beside her. There have always been two extra places there at First Sunday, as long as he can remember. Nobody talks about them, and when he finally asked Athena who they were for, she shook her head and said, 'For those who'll never sit at this table. Leave it, Apollo, it's not important.' He lost interest, indeed forgot that they were there, but they're clearly affecting Demeter. He looks at Arty, and sees she's as puzzled as him.

 

Dinner finishes when Hera rises from the table. Uncle leads the men out into his study, to talk more business, and the ladies retire to one of the sitting rooms. Apollo hangs around in the study long enough to get a drink, then wanders out into the corridor. He sees Demeter put her coat and hat on again and go out the front door after exchanging a few words with Hera and with Arty, surprisingly. She sees him watching them and smiles at him sadly; he raises his glass to her but she has already gone. Hera goes back to the sitting room, but Arty comes to join him. 'What was that about?' he says.

 

'I don't know,' she says, looking puzzled. 'She told me to look after my girls, and never let them out of my sight. I told her that of course I was going to look after them, and that I'd teach them how to look after themselves, but I don't think that was quite what she wanted to hear. She said she hoped I'd never know what she meant, and then she was off. Poor thing, I don't think she's _all there_ , if you know what I mean.'

 

'There you are,' Athena says, bearing down on them. 'Let's go to the library.' And she sweeps them away in her stead, leading them to a room where all the walls and even the windows are covered in bookshelves. 'Welcome to my home away from home,' she says grandly, gesturing them in.

 

'You live here?' Apollo says wonderingly.

 

'Well, not quite,' Athena says impatiently, 'But nobody else comes in. Come on, sit down and we can actually talk.'

 

They sit among the books, trying not to make any sudden movements, and Apollo tells the girls all that he and Dionysus know, which is not very much. He also tells Athena, pointedly, that they would be working a lot faster without fear of the feds hanging over them. Athena looks irritated. 'I hoped it would make you work faster,' she says.

 

'And how exactly did you think we were going to solve-- sort this out when we couldn't be seen together?' he says exasperatedly. The anger has gone away, leaving only weariness and a wry amusement at Athena's surprise that she is not infallible.

 

She frowns. 'We'll get them off your backs somehow,' she says. 'I'll talk Ares into starting another brawl; he loves those.'

 

'And he won't ask why?' Arty says, eyebrows raised.

 

'I doubt it,' Athena says. 'I'll tell him that someone insulted Aphrodite if he really wants to know.' She sighs. 'I suppose we'd better get back before we're missed.'

 

'Do we have to?' Apollo says plaintively. Athena merely looks at him and he sighs and gets up from his chair. People say that Uncle rules the south bank, but Hera rules Uncle’s house. 'What are these?' he says, looking at a photograph hung on the door, desperate to procrastinate.

 

'That? That's an old family photo,' Athena says, 'It's been there for years.'

 

He and Arty peer at it. It's old, and from the time when nobody smiled in photographs, but he can still make out the faces. 'So it is,' he says. There are six people, three men and three women. He sees Uncle, looking rather like Herakles. They're all dressed in some sort of costume. 'What were they doing?' he says.

 

'The back says "The siblings, fancy dress party",' Athena says. 'You can ask them yourselves, if you really want--'

 

'Wait,' he says, putting up a hand vaguely. 'Who's who?'

 

Athena sighs. 'The men are Uncle, Poseidon, and...' she peers at the man on the left, dressed in a black robe and some sort of tawdry necklace. '...don't recognise him. Maybe he was a friend of theirs. And the women are Hera, Hestia and Demeter.'

 

'Oh, good grief,' Apollo says quietly. The stranger, with his jewels; Poseidon, wearing a robe stamped with-- horseshoes?; Demeter, poppies braided in her hair; Hera, with peacock feathers sewn onto her dress, more held in her hand like a bouquet. Suddenly it all falls into place.

 

'What is it?' Athena says.

 

' _What,_ Polly?' Arty demands.

He downs his drink. 'I have to go,' he says breathlessly. 'Have to find Dionysus-- show him--' He lifts the photograph off the wall. 'Can I borrow this?' he says to Athena, who gapes at him.

 

'What on earth are you doing?' Arty hisses as he prises the back off. 'You can't just take--'

 

'I'll give it back!' he snaps. He pulls out the photograph, rolls it up carefully and puts it inside his jacket. 'Is there a back way out of here?'

 

'It's a house, not a fortress!' Athena snaps. 'Of course there's a back door--'

 

'Good. Take me there, please? I need to leave right now,' he says, pulling the door open and checking the corridor. It's empty, and he drags Athena out.

 

'Down the corridor, turn right, take the third door,' she says quickly. 'Go through the kitchens and there's a side gate behind an oak tree that goes into an alley. If you let anyone see you I will _personally_ carry out Father's justice, understand?'

 

'You can't just leave!' Arty hisses. 'If they have you followed--'

 

'Cover for me!' he calls over his shoulder, halfway down the corridor. 'I know why they're being killed!'


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, infidelity]

TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, discussion of corpses, discussion of murders

 

It occurs to Apollo, having carefully slipped out of the house, down the alley and onto the street without being noticed, half-running and glad that he doesn't have to worry about how respectable he looks until next month, that he is not particularly sure where he is going. Dionysus said 'the Bacchanalia' as though he would know where it was instantly, and perhaps he ought to, but he has never been one for spending late nights at dance halls or clubs, being a morning person by nature. (Arty, on the other hand, is an incurable night-owl and gets up early in the mornings by sheer strength of will, which probably contributes to her temper.) He is aware that keeping normal hours is unusual and probably unlooked for in a poet or a lover, and has tried to change them accordingly, but his body is immune to romantic thoughts. All this, combined with trying to find his way from Uncle’s stronghold, not Delos Street, makes him thoroughly confused.

 

He slows to a fast walk (to give the matter its proper urgency), considering the matter. Dionysus said the club was near the docks, but there is at least two miles of city near the coastline that could reasonably be called 'the docks', and he doesn't know if the club is on the shore itself, or in one of the side streets. The docks themselves are rough places, hardly likely spots for dance halls, and few people actually live there. But perhaps Dionysus is one of those few. Maybe living close to the docks and the foreign ships that berth there reminds him of his home, wherever that is. Then again, he might live closer to the immigrants' quarter, and feel more at home there.

 

Apollo sighs and decides that he ought to search methodically to find the club in the fastest time, and makes for the docks. He goes up and down the boardwalks, uncomfortably aware that Poseidon has men out here that might recognise him, and it's as he expects: few houses, no dance halls, except for the kind that spring up wherever sailors are found, and he hopes fervently that the Bacchanalia is not one of _those_. He finds streets a little further from the coast and searches them too, but there are no places that look likely, and few people to ask on a sunday. By the time he has made his way down to the immigrants' quarter the sun is starting to go down, and he wonders tiredly if he has misremembered the name. He is reluctant to go into the quarter itself and navigate its twisting streets with night falling; crime is everywhere in the south bank, even among the people who have just arrived in the city. Nonetheless he asks several people coming out of the quarter if they know of a place called the Bacchanalia, or a man named Dionysus; they tell him politely, in different accents, that neither is found in their quarter and move on, sneaking glances over their shoulders at him as they disappear into the gloom. For the first time in his life, he feels like a stranger in his own city, and walks away.

 

He follows one of the main streets that run parallel to the docks, tired from walking back and forth and truly beginning to wonder if Dionysus gave him the right name. Perhaps there is no such place. Perhaps Dionysus really isn't the man's name, in which case he has no hope of finding him. Perhaps Athena will know, and he briefly regrets not asking her back at the house. He wonders if he's been missed.

 

He passes a group of children sprawled across some unfortunate shopkeeper's steps, who eye him with a healthy dose of suspicion before deciding that he isn't a fed. It can't hurt to ask them, he supposes; if none of them know he'll go home and talk to Athena later, disappointing as it may be. They tense a little as he stops in front of them, but keep up their air of apathetic insouciance.

 

'I'm looking for a place called the Bacchanalia,' he says. 'Can you tell me where it is?'

 

Bored looks and silence. They are learning the ways of the world very quickly, it seems. He pulls out a couple of coins and suddenly they come alive and cluster around him, each one clamouring to have the honour of leading him to his chosen place.

 

He is sure to be watched if all of them follow him. 'You,' he says, pointing to a girl; her hair is in braids and her thin face is dirty, but her eyes are discerning. She reminds him of Arty, which he takes as a good sign. She nods and sets off, and he and all the others follow, the rest now telling him earnestly that she doesn't know the way, or that they know a shorter way, a better way. 'Clear off,' he says, 'I'm only paying her.' They fall away, but he'll bet that they're following more discretely.

 

The girl walks quickly, for such short legs, and she seems to know the way well. They walk in silence. Perhaps ten minutes later she brings him to a street that would be busy on weekdays. Now it's quiet, but he can make out 'Bacchanalia' written in curling letters along the top of a building at the end. The girl stops a block away from the building, and he realises that it's as far as she'll go. 'Thank-you, little miss, and here's something for your trouble,' he says, giving her all the coins in his pocket; not more than a dollar at best, but her fingers clutch them. 'Don't let your brothers take it off you.'

 

'Never do, sir,' she says, and before he can react she puts the coins to her mouth and swallows them.

 

He gapes at her. 'What are you going to do with them?' he says, appalled but impressed. Certainly no-one is going to take the money from her now.

 

'Oh, no trouble, sir, Mam gives me a tonic and I bring 'em right back up,' she says, flashing him a gap-toothed grin. 'I can wait for you, sir, if you want,' she says hopefully.

 

'No, thank-you,' he says, straightening up, 'I can find my own way home.'

 

She glances at the building and looks uneasy again. 'Don't let the mennids get you, sir,' she says sternly, and slips away down an alley before he can ask her what she means. Mennids? Some sort of monster, presumably, but he feels safe enough with a knife tucked into his shoe. She must be seeing things, probably feeling sick from swallowing all those coins at once.

 

He straightens his shoulders, runs over the thoughts in his head, and sets off towards the building. The sun is just setting, and the world has turned gold and red; the building seems to glow in the dusk, and the rest of the street has turned grey and dim in its shadow. There's no door to be seen. He studies the front and finds that the windows are completely covered. There's a narrow alley on the eastern side, now in shadow with the sun setting, and fresh footprints in the dirt in front of it. That must be a way in, but he's wary of walking into that cramped, dark space. He looks around the other side, but the wall joins straight on to the next building. Perhaps this is a test for newcomers to the club, or to keep the curious away. He can either go down that dark gap between buildings, or go home and come back during the day, now that he knows where to find it.

 

The sensible thing to do would be to come back in daylight and find the back entrance when the dark doesn't cover any potential enemies. He wonders if any of the other children could have got here fast enough to warn their adults and lay a trap. On the other hand, every day they don't find the murderer is another day for them to kill again. _The Bacchanalia,_ Dionysus said, and here it is; he must have decided he was clever enough to find the entrance by himself. He has not come halfway across the city, he decides, to fail at the last hurdle. Perhaps Dionysus is even watching him now through one of the papered windows, waiting for him to take up the challenge.

 

He walks several houses down from the quiet building, turns into a doorway and retrieves the knife from his shoe. He fits it carefully into his right hand and makes sure it's covered by his jacket sleeve. Then he strolls back to the Bacchanalia, and turns down into the alley.

 

...

 

He edges down the narrow way cautiously, his back to the stone of the building. He shies back against the wall as something soft brushes against his face, banging his head; it turns out to be leaves from some sort of vine. Night is now falling in earnest; when he looks back the way he has come it seems completely dark. The strip of sky above him is pale blue, crossed with streaky clouds.

 

He edges further down, keeping his left hand on the wall and his right hand at his side, ready with the knife, but the alley is quiet. A little breeze rustles the vine leaves; it's almost pastoral, and quite absurd to be so isolated in the middle of the city. The vine gets thicker as he goes on, making a roof of greenery. It would be useful if there was rain but it shuts out even more light, leaving nothing but a dim sense of solid shapes. The vines get so thick that he has to turn sideways to get past them, his back almost scraping against the wall. He turns to look back and sees only the leaves. It is hardly believable that the street is only a few yards away. He inches on, clutching the knife. The vine begins to pull back and he feels better, as though he is halfway there. It's now truly dark, and he can even see a star in the slit of sky above the alley, but he feels better for being able to move freely, and he should be able to hear anyone coming up behind him. He moves forward more confidently.

 

A few yards later the stone wall ends and he realises that he must have got to the back yard of the building. He blinks as he rounds the corner and finds a lamp set into the wall; from the light he can see the vine runs all around the fence and up the back of the building behind it. It's even growing over the rubbish in the yard, but there's nobody there. He looks at the ground and finds fresh footprints, though, and follows them to where they seem to disappear into the wall below the lamp.

 

He frowns, steps back, and looks again. There _is_ a door there, painted carefully to look like the stone, and no handle on the outside. Well, he has found a way in at least. He knocks at the door and waits, then knocks again more forcefully. After a few minutes he decides that if this really is a dance hall, as Dionysus says, it's highly unlikely that anyone will hear a knock about the music, even if it's as quiet as a country lane outside. Perhaps people have complained about the noise. But he is curious now and runs his fingers along the edge of the door, trying to find purchase. It's not locked, at least. He doesn't want to risk his knife trying to pry it open, but he picks over the rubbish in the yard and finds a thin piece of wood that might do. After a few tries he manages to wedge it in the door, and pry it open enough to get his fingers around the edge.

 

When he finally manages to pull the door open, he recoils as a combined blast of light, sound and heat come at him full bore. It's quite disorientating after the quiet of the yard, and he blinks as he tries to get used to it. For all the noise he can't see anyone in the corridor, and he steps gingerly inside. The door closes behind him with a slight click, but swings open again easily when he pushes it. He puts the knife away, and makes his way down the hall.

 

The corridor leads to a set of stairs. He climbs them carefully, but the sound coming from above would be enough to cover a herd of elephants. It gets even louder as he climbs the last step, goes through a door and finally sees the dancehall. All the windows must be blocked, because the heat and the sound are intense. There are strings of lights along the walls and looping over the ceiling, but it's not particularly bright. The stage is bright as a jazz band makes dust shake off the walls, and the dance floor itself is packed with people. There are more people around the walls, sitting at tables or at a little bar he can see at the far end. Small wonder that whoever owns this place took so much care to make it look boring from the street.

 

He starts forward, and immediately bumps into a woman. 'Sorry,' he says, and she narrows her eyes.

 

'Who're you?' she says sharply, looking him up and down. 'I ain't seen you before. Who let you in?'

 

'No-one,' he says, beginning to regret that he's put the knife away; the woman is looking at his throat intently. 'I found my way in. I need to talk to Dionysus--'

 

'I think you need to leave,' another woman says, coming to stand beside the first. They're both dressed according to the latest fashion, all short hair and knee-length skirts, beads slung around their necks. The expression is the same too, of barely-controlled urges. He doesn't want to find out what those urges might be.

 

'Who's this?' says a third woman, dressed the same, and she's joined by others, at least five of them now, all looking at him like a lioness might consider a gazelle.

 

'Don't know,' says the first.

 

'Don't care to know,' says the third.

 

'You want to leave right now, matey,' says the second.

 

They're only girls, his mind insists, but he's beginning to feel quite alarmed. He almost takes a step back under their gaze before he remembers himself. 'I need to talk to a man named Dionysus,' he says as calmly as he can manage. 'I was told he could be found here--'

 

'You heard wrong,' the second woman says baldly.

 

'Beat it,' says the third.

 

'Or we'll throw you out,' the first woman hisses, almost slurring her words. She puts her hand out towards him but it looks like she's trying to catch him instead of pushing him away, her fingers stretching into claws. The others are pressing around him and he's almost ready to forget the whole business when a voice says, ' _Ap_ -ollo?'

 

He only knows one person who pronounces his name like that; utterly unexpected in this place, but very welcome all the same. 'Thalia?' he says, uncertain but hopeful.

 

'It _is_ you, Apollo!' And to his astonishment, Thalia pushes between two of the women and pecks him on the cheek, looking delighted and surprised. 'What on earth are you doing here? I never thought you'd be one for a night at the Bach!'

 

'Looking for someone,' he says. 'As I was trying to explain to these young ladies...' and he makes a little gesture at the women, still watching him.

 

'Oh, go on, girls, back to the party,' Thalia says, waving a hand at them. Most of them disperse, to his intense but hopefully hidden relief, but the first two linger.

 

'No-one brought him in,' the first woman says suspiciously, using the second woman to prop herself up. 'Should throw him out, not welcome here--'

 

'We'll sort all this out,' Thalia says decisively. 'Go and lie down for a bit, dear, you'll feel better.' The second woman pulls her friend away, with a last suspicious look, and they're left alone.

 

'So what are you doing here?' Thalia demands, eyes sparkling. 'No, wait, let me guess - it's about a lost love, isn't it?'

 

'No,' he says tiredly, 'it's not. I need to talk to Dionysus--'

 

'Yes, yes,' she says airily. 'But really, you couldn't blame me for thinking it was about love, it's _always_ about lost loves with you.'

 

'Is Dionysus here?' he says desperately.

 

'Doing a little paperwork upstairs,' Thalia says.

 

'Then I'll go and see him--'

 

Her fingers dig into his arm. 'He's _busy_ ,' she says sternly. 'With _business_. He'll be down soon and you can talk to him then. But how do you know Di? This isn't your sort of place at all!'

 

Definitely not, he thinks, if they have women like that here every night. 'It's a private matter,' he says. 'But what are you doing here?' For Thalia is dressed almost like the strange women, albeit with slightly subtler makeup, and looks a world away from the woman who reads them her witty pieces at the poetry club.

 

'Let me get the others, and we'll tell you all about it,' Thalia says. 'Eutie!' she calls over the music, waving into the crowd. 'Terps! Rattie! Look who's here!' She’s waving with one hand and pointing at him with the other. And sure enough, two figures jump up from one of the tables and another splits away from the dancers, and he recognises them with disbelief: Euterpe, Erato, Terpsichore. They shriek with delight and latch onto him, each one talking over the others. They tow him through the crowds and find a table, cramming themselves into it. Thalia slips away and comes back with drinks; Apollo takes his and sips politely, but the girls toss them back as though they're drinking tea.

 

'So how long have you girls been coming here?' he says, finally getting a word in.

 

'We've been coming here for months, silly!' Erato says, laughing. 'Ever since it started!'

 

'We helped it start!' Euterpe says, and they crow with laughter. The drink must have gone to their heads already, not that he's surprised. Terpsichore is tapping her fingers on the table and looking at the dancers, so he turns to Thalia for a better explanation.

 

'Di came over to my table when I was at a cafe brainstorming,' she says. 'Said he recognised me from when I read that poem about fish, you know the one, at the club, and how much he'd enjoyed it. So then of course we had to sit down and have a proper talk, and he was there the next time all of us went over for brunch, so of course I invited him over, and we were all of us talking up a storm when he told us about this idea he had, see, for a place where women - and men, but mostly women - could have a jolly good time. And we thought it was brilliant, and said of course we'd come over and help him, and here we are!'

 

'Well, not all of us,' Erato breaks in. 'Of course Poly and Mel won't come, being such wet blankets, and Clio's always glued to her books, and Ranie's always on about her stars. We should drag them all over here one day, it'll do them good, but _no_ , they won't hear of it.' She rolls her eyes.

 

'Well...' Apollo says, 'Some of the women are a little... alarming, at first...'

 

'Oh, them? They're only mad because you got in yourself,' Euterpe says, waving it away. 'And you're absolutely _not_ allowed to tell anyone you got in yourself, alright? That's not how it's done, Apollo, really, if you wanted to come here you could have told us and we'd have brought you along.'

 

'I didn't know I'd be coming here,' he says defensively. 'And what's the point of a dance hall if you can't get in?'

 

'We _invite_ people in,' Thalia says. 'People who might not have a chance at getting into other places. Some of these girls have been banned from the main halls just for having a bit of fun, you know, it's terribly unfair.'

 

He doesn't agree, but he glances around the hall and he can see quite a few foreigners - or from the immigrants' quarter, at least. He can see a few women draped over each other across a couch along the other side of the hall, and near them are two men sitting rather closer together than usual, in fact, being very close indeed--

 

'Don't _look_ ,' Thalia says, pulling his chin back to face her. 'It's rude. Like I said, we _invite_ people. And we take care who to invite.'

 

'I see,' he says, and takes another sip of his drink. It tastes good, very good, but he needs a clear head when he talks to Dionysus.

 

'Enough talking,' Terpsichore says, springing up from her seat. 'Slam that down and come and dance with me.'

 

'I need to talk to--' he begins.

 

'Yes, we _know_ ,' Terpsichore says. 'Come and dance and the time will go faster. Thal will keep an eye on the door, won't you Thal?' She seizes his arm and drags him upright. He doesn't mind waltzing, but this doesn't look like the sort of place for it, and the people already dancing are throwing their limbs in every direction. He looks at the door and miraculously it opens at that very moment.

 

'Sorry, Terps, have to go,' he says, and wrenches away from her. He tries to shoulder through to the door but the corner is crowded with people. The women he first met push around him, shrieking with delight, and he finds Thalia at his elbow again.

 

'You really need to talk to him?' she says, eyebrow raised.

 

' _Yes!_ ' He has to half-shout it in her ear.

'All right, then.' She takes his arm and uses her free elbow to dig their way through the crowd until they find the man at its centre.

 

Dionysus looks worlds apart from the man he met only a few days ago. His eyes are bright, he smiles and calls out names, and he looks full of energy, as though he's going to float with it soon. Apollo knows some people can take the energy of a crowd and work with it, but this is something else: Dionysus is _alive_ with the energy in the room, as though sparks are going to come from his fingers. He seems seven feet tall, as though an ancient god has come back to earth. He laughs and the whole room seems to laugh with him, and as he drinks from the glass in his hand the liquid gleams and hugs the sides of the glass like the vine hugs the fence outside, as though all the drinks in all the glasses in the hall are part of one great twisting plant.

 

Seeing him like this, in his element, makes the shock and utter surprise that appear on his face when he looks over and sees Apollo quite comical. Apollo can feel Thalia shaking beside him as she laughs, but he remembers why he's come here and keeps his face serious, although he will treasure that look for a long time. The crowd parts much more easily for Dionysus than for Thalia, but as soon as he reaches them they press close again, eager to see the entertainment. Apollo feels someone link arms with him and realises that it's one of the women who nearly drove him out; she looks up at him and beams, as though she's forgotten it already.

 

'What on earth are you doing here?' Dionysus says, looking at him as though he's going to vanish in a puff of smoke in an instant.

 

'I need to talk to you,' he says, then, with a nod to the people all around them, 'In private?'

 

Dionysus shakes his head slightly. 'Work, always work,' he says resignedly, draining his glass. 'You'd better come upstairs.'

 

...

 

Dionysus takes him through a door behind the bar, and the noise drops to merely very loud. Apollo has to bend over to avoid the ceiling, and almost brains himself on a beam as they start up a spiral staircase that someone has tried to cram into the space, defying common sense and possibly physical laws. There's another door at the top, which sticks half-open until Dionysus puts his shoulder against it, and finally a little room, oddly shaped by the corner of the roof. Apollo follows Dionysus inside and pushes the door shut behind him. He can still hear the music coming up through the floorboards, but it's at least quiet enough to think properly. The room is large enough for a little desk, a chair and papers stacked against the walls, and a little window lets a welcome breath of air in.

 

Dionysus pulls open one of the drawers in the desk and pulls out a bottle wrapped in paper. Apollo takes a swig to be polite and passes it back. Dionysus drinks more deeply, wrapping his fingers around the neck of the bottle as though it steadies him. He looks more tired, now, as though whatever energy the crowd gave him is waning. He motions Apollo to the chair, and leans back against the wall. 'First things first,' he says, 'How did you _find_ this place?' He sounds amazed.

 

Apollo wonders at that. 'You gave me the name,' he says. 'Tried to find it, got lost, paid a street rat to take me here.'

 

'Which one?' Dionysus says sharply.

 

'Scrawny girl, about eleven or twelve, with brown pigtails. I tipped her and she swallowed the coins,' he says. Dionysus seems to relax a little.

 

'She won't talk,' he says, half to himself. He looks up again. 'You weren't followed?'

 

'No, of course not,' Apollo says irritably. 'I'm not a _flat_ , for heaven's sake.' Although he's probably going to have to answer some awkward questions from Hera the next time he sees her.

 

'Steady on,' Dionysus says, putting up his hand. 'I'm just being careful. I _have_ to be careful.'

 

And for good reason, Apollo understands that. The feds raid the docks sometimes, and the Bacchanalia isn't so far from the sea. 'No hard feelings,' he says. 'The vine's a nice touch, but the mud in the alley shows the footprints.'

 

Dionysus sighs. 'I need to do something about that,' he admits. 'Can't exactly pave it over or there'll be all sorts of questions, of course.'

 

'What about gravel?' Apollo says.

 

Dionysus looks thoughtful. 'That might be an idea,' he says. 'But after you found the place, who let you in?'

 

'No-one,' Apollo says. 'I found a stick and pried the door open; it wasn't locked.'

 

Dionysus scowls. 'I see I'm going to have to find the person who came in before you,' he says. 'Well, enough of that. What's so important that you actually find me at work to tell me about it?'

 

Apollo pulls the photo out of his jacket, unrolling it carefully. 'I was at First Sunday with Arty and I found this in the library,' he says, handing it over.

 

'Right,' Dionysus says, looking at the photograph with mild interest. 'And what is that, exactly?'

 

Of course he wouldn't know. 'The first sunday of the month, Hera makes us all come to her and Uncle’s house for church service and dinner,' he explains. 'You know, to keep up the illusion that we're a respectable family.' Dionysus snorts. 'Exactly,' he says. 'But she's not a woman to cross.'

 

'Not from what I've heard, no,' Dionysus agrees.

 

'So Arty and Athena and I escaped to the library, and I told Athena off for sewing us up--' Dionysus raises the bottle in a salute, '--and that we hadn't got any further. And then I saw this hanging on the back of the door. Athena said it was taken when they were off to a fancy dress party or something like that.'

 

Dionysus looks at the photograph again with more interest. 'That's Zeus and Poseidon in the back row,' Apollo explains, pointing them out. 'Poseidon's his brother--'

 

'Your actual uncle, as opposed to your other Uncle,' Dionysus says. 'Good grief, you're a confusing family.'

 

'You don't know the half of it,' Apollo says. 'And we think the man on the end must have been a friend of theirs.'

 

Dionysus looks at the man dressed in the dark robe. 'Yes, that sounds likely,' he agrees, rather quickly. 'And that's Hera, obviously, her expression hasn't changed at all over the years.'

 

'You've met Hera?' Apollo says in surprise.

 

'Once, and that was enough,' Dionysus says grimly. 'Who's the mousy-looking one?'

 

'Hestia,' Apollo says. 'Can't really blame her for looking mousy next to Hera, but she does make a fine roast beef.'

 

'And the last one?'

 

'That's Demeter,' he says. 'Arty and I only met her today for the first time, but apparently she's Hera's sister. Poor thing, she seemed rather upset about something.'

 

Dionysus looks at Demeter. 'She looks familiar,' he says. 'No idea why, but there you are. So it's a picture of them all when they were young, what about it?'

 

'I think whoever's been murdering people is doing it as a message to Uncle and his siblings,' Apollo says.

 

Dionysus blinks at him. 'Are we back to the creative murderer theory again?' he says.

 

'No-- look, at the costumes.' Apollo snatches the photograph back and points to the unknown man. 'Look, he's wearing some sort of gaudy necklace, probably costume jewellery. And our first victim was found with costume jewels in both hands.' Dionysus looks dubious. 'It doesn't sound like much until you see them all together. The second victim was found drenched in salt water.' He points at Poseidon. 'Poseidon runs the shipping side of the business. He deals with all of the sea trade.'

 

'And the horseshoes around the victims' neck?' Dionysus asks.

 

'He loves horses,' Apollo says. 'Probably too much. He almost lost the family fortune gambling, so Uncle became the head of the business instead of him. The third victim was found with opium in her stomach and grain in her pockets.' He points at Demeter. 'She's got poppies in her hair, and opium comes from poppies. And she said she lived on a farm.'

 

'She could live on any sort of farm,' Dionysus says, shaking his head.

 

'And the latest one,' Apollo continues, choosing to ignore him, 'was found with peacock feathers covering her eyes.' He gestures at Hera. 'And the woman had apparently had puerperal fever, which women get from childbirth. Hera's on the committee for the charity that builds orphanages. Whoever's doing the killings is trying to send a message.'

 

'What message?' Dionysus says.

 

Apollo sighs. 'I don't know,' he admits. 'Threats? The mistakes they made when they were young? But there _is_ a connection between the way the bodies were laid out and the people in this photograph.'

 

Dionysus is not looking convinced. 'Think about the bodies,' Apollo says quickly. 'They were all stabbed from behind, right? And they must have died almost instantly, right? And you said yourself that it was as though whoever killed them didn't want them to feel pain, almost as though he didn't want to kill them. And you also said in your message that the victims hardly deserved to die. What if...' He pauses, trying to find the right words. 'What if the killer didn't kill these people because of what they'd done, but because of what he wanted to use them for? What if this isn't about who they were, but who they've been made up to look like?'

 

Dionysus takes another swig from the bottle and digests this in silence. 'It's a pretty theory,' he says at last. 'They do seem to line up quite well with your relatives if you know their habits, but we can't assume that the killer knows any of that. Are there any copies of that photograph?'

 

'I don't know,' Apollo says. 'Athena might know.'

 

'Then how would the killer know that Hera once dressed as a peacock for a party, or that Demeter used to wear poppies in her hair?' Dionysus says. 'It falls apart as soon as you start to ask questions.'

 

'There _is_ something here,' Apollo says angrily, 'I know this has something to do with it, and we haven't seen the link yet.'

 

'It's a theory, at least,' Dionysus says. 'And something to work on, but this isn't going to hold up for a moment without some sort of proof.'

 

'Then we'll have to find some sort of proof,' Apollo says decisively.

 

'Yes, we will,' Dionysus agrees. 'But not tonight. I have to keep working.'

 

'How can you work in here with such loud music?' Apollo says wonderingly.

 

'What, this? Can barely hear it,' Dionysus says offhandedly. 'Actually, I rather like having it on when I'm trying to do the accounts. It makes it more entertaining, and reminds me why I have to struggle through figures and taxes and what-not. But this isn't the work,' he says, putting the bottle away. 'My work's downstairs.'

 

'I hardly call that _work_ ,' Apollo says.

 

'Try a night of it and see,' Dionysus says with a slight shake of his head. 'I'll be down there until we close the doors. It's my job to make sure everything runs smoothly.' He smiles suddenly. 'And you can help me.

 

'What?' says Apollo, taken aback. 'Look, I'm sorry, but I need to get back, I bailed on Arty and she's going to be furious--'

 

'She can be furious at you tomorrow,' Dionysus says cheerfully, looking more energetic again. 'Besides, it's pitch black outside, you won't find your way home. And after you turned up here, riled up my regular girls and then stole me away for the best part of an hour, they're going to be mad with curiosity. They'll pester both of us unless they have a distraction.'

 

'And _I'm_ the distraction?' Apollo says, aghast.

 

'It's only one night,' Dionysus says, looking far too cheerful. He pulls the door open again and gestures Apollo through. 'Don't be such a wet blanket. Just let them dance with you and pretend to listen to their gossip and you'll be fine.' He locks the door behind him and they start down the stairs.

 

The noise increases again as they go down, and Apollo steels himself mentally for the night ahead. 'Oh, one more thing,' Dionysus says, putting a hand on his shoulder, 'If they give you a blue drink, don't take it; you'll be out like a light. You need to ease into the stuff.' And he opens the door and guides him back into the hall.

 

Immediately the shrieking begins again, the girls clustering around them. 'Ladies!' Dionysus says, smiling at them all. 'This is Apollo. He's a friend of mine and he hasn't been here before; you'll make sure he has a good time, won't you?'

 

Several pairs of hands reach out. Apollo tries not to look like a cornered rat, and they pull him away. He looks over his shoulder and sees Dionysus grin; determined not to be outdone, he grins back and waves over his shoulder. One of the girls hands him a drink. He can't really tell the colour in the dim light, but he sips it and finds it's only rum, to his relief. 'Drink, drink!' the women chant, and he swallows the rest of it. They cheer and hand him another one. He drinks that more slowly, but he can still feel the liquor start to take a hold on him.

 

Another drink is proffered and he's trying to refuse it politely when Terpsichore appears at his side, taking his arm from one of the girls. ' _Now_ you can dance,' she says imperiously, and pulls him away.

 

...

 

He spends the first song ducking and dodging as Terpsichore, and all the other dancers, throw their arms into the air willy-nilly. She laughs and shows him some of the moves. 'What if I hit someone?' he shouts as the music blasts a few yards away.

 

'That's their fault for not dodging!' she shouts back cheerfully, and he doesn't get a word in again until the second song ends. By then he feels as though he's run half a mile, but Terpsichore keeps dancing even when the musicians stop between songs. Maybe she gets her energy from the crowd too. Ten or eleven songs later, she stops dancing and drags him off the dance floor. By then, between the dancing and the heat, he's soaked in sweat and feels as though he can barely stand. He leans against the wall gratefully, closing his eyes for a moment.

 

' _Apollo?_ ' says a voice. He opens his eyes again wearily and finds a woman standing in front of him. One of Dionysus' girls, he presumes. She looks vaguely familiar under the heavy makeup, and moreover, she looks furious.

 

'Er, hello--' he says, but she doesn't give him a chance to finish. Instead she brings her glass up and throws the contents at him. He clenches his eyes shut as icecubes bounce off his face, and blinks the alcohol out of his eyes.

 

'That's for my _sister_ , you bastard!' She storms off into the crowd.

 

'--Laodice,' he says, finally recognising her.

 

'I thought you said you could hold your drink!' Thalia laughs. She must have seen the whole thing. 'Just _wait_ until Artemis hears about this!'

 

'What's this?' Erato says, appearing out of the crowd with a glass of blue liquid in each hand.

 

'Apollo's just met Laodice,' Thalia says, still laughing.

 

'Not your type, then?' Erato says. 'Pity, she's a lovely girl if you catch her in a good mood.'

 

'I know Laodice,' he says, wiping rum off his face. 'What's in those things?' he says, trying to change the subject.

 

'Best not to ask,' Erato says. She brightens up. 'Come on, we'll find you a nice girl to take your mind off things.'

 

'But I _have_ a nice girl,' he protests. He'll finish the poems soon. 'Wait, take my mind off what things?'

 

'Rattie, don't,' Thalia says quickly, the smile disappearing from her face.

 

Erato looks torn. 'What things?' he asks again.

 

Now she looks truly miserable. 'Marpessa's got engaged,' she says, not meeting his eyes. 'It was in the papers, Apollo, don't take it too hard--' If she says anything else, he doesn't hear it. The lights seem to go dim, and the music fades to a whisper. Marpessa. It can't be true, she wouldn't-- _Marpessa..._

 

'We thought you knew,' Thalia says, putting her arm around him. 'We thought that was why you came down here...'

 

'Apollo, dear, didn't anyone _tell_ you?' Erato says.

 

The sympathy is too much to bear. 'Give me one of those,' he says hoarsely, and pulls the glass out of her hand. He gulps it down, gasping at the taste. They're fluttering around him now, looking quite alarmed, but he's beyond caring. He can't care about anything now.

 

Dionysus is as good as his word. The next few minutes are a blur. Everything after that is completely in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES: The muses we meet here are Thalia (comedy), Terpsichore (dance), Euterpe (music) and Erato (love poetry). The others are not likely to be found in a dance hall.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism]

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism]

 

Apollo wakes up with a pounding headache in a strange room with little light. There's a foul taste in his mouth, his right cheek feels sore, and his whole body feels washed out. Nothing moves in the room, but he can hear a low hum outside, sounding like traffic and people. Where is he? He pushes himself up on one elbow and regrets it immediately, letting his head fall back. He feels cloth on his skin, and his fingers poke at his resting place. A cushion, then. They grope down and find some empty space, and then floorboards. He must be lying on someone's bed, but whose? Something terrible happened last night. He must have been howling drunk, from the headache sending dark tendrils into his tender brain.

 

He lifts his head gently, and the headache is dull enough for him to sit upright. He turns out to be lying on a sofa, an old rug draped over him. The room is dim, but he can see other shapes. Bodies? He squints at the nearest, and suddenly recoils, clenching his eyes shut out of modesty and fresh pain from the headache. He takes a few deep breaths and gets to his feet very gently. His legs feel sore, but he can stand up at least. He picks up the rug, shuffles over to the other couch, and drapes it carefully over the half-naked woman sprawled there. Then he walks away as quietly as possible and nearly steps on another woman curled up on the floor and thankfully fully dressed. Her hair is a mess, and her eyes are thickly rimmed with kohl. That seems familiar. He steps over her and towards the source of the dim light. If he can see outside and work out where he is...

 

The windows are papered over.

 

He blinks at them for a moment. There's a small hole in the paper, and he puts his eye to it, blinking at the brighter day outside. He can't see anything but a yard with old rubbish and a vine growing along the fence, but that seems familiar.

 

There's a soft sound, as though muffled by walls. He spins around, senses overloading, and puts a hand out to steady himself as his head reels. He bends down, wincing, and feels for the knife in his shoe. It's still there. So he probably hasn't been kidnapped. The metal feels reassuring, at least, even if he doesn't trust himself to wield it. He leaves it there. Better to have it for later.

 

He takes in the room. There are several people in various states of undress, all sleeping quite peacefully, some draped over each other. There's a door at the far end. He makes his way over to it, wincing as the floorboards creek, but nobody wakes up. There's another sound from behind the door, and he might be imagining quiet voices. He tries the doorknob, and it turns.

 

Nothing for it, then. If someone has kidnapped him, they'll regret it soon, and if not, he'd better find out where he is. He remembers needing to tell Dionysus something, and can't remember if he actually found him. He pulls the door open, putting his hand up against the light, and goes through, shutting it behind him.

 

Thalia and Dionysus look up from where they're sitting at an old table with mismatching chairs. The windows are papered over in this room too, but there's a light bulb hanging above the table. He can smell coffee. They look him up and down with something like pity. If he looks as bad as he feels, he's not surprised.

 

'You look like death warmed over,' Dionysus says. 'You weren't joking when you said you didn't drink much, were you?'

 

'Not so loud,' he says. 'I drank the blue drink,' he adds, remembering it suddenly. It didn't taste like much, but it must have knocked him out.

 

'Yes, we know,' Thalia says, getting up. He winces as her chair scrapes across the floor. She comes over to him and puts her hand on his forehead. It's beautifully cool, but he winces as she pokes at the bruise on his face. 'Stop that,' he says irritably, flicking her hand away.

 

'You're lucky the bone's not broken,' she says. 'Come and sit down. I'll make us some more coffee.'

 

He shuffles over to the table and sits down carefully. Dionysus keeps drinking his coffee. He must have drunk more last night and yet he looks quite unshaken, the bastard. He sees Apollo looking at him and smiles. 'Never go to sleep drunk,' he says knowingly. 'It messes you up terribly. Wait until it's out of your system, then have a glass of water and you'll wake up fresh as a spring morning.'

 

'Oh, I hate you,' Apollo says, putting his arms on the table and resting his head in the blessedly dark crook of his elbow. Dionysus laughs, the sound echoing inside his skull, and pats his shoulder.

 

'So,' he says, 'What do you remember of last night?'

 

Apollo tries to think. It's hard not to go to sleep again. 'I drank the blue drink,' he says.

 

'Yes, the very one I warned you against,' Dionysus agrees. 'Anything else?'

 

'We talked about--' Apollo suddenly stops, aware of Thalia making coffee very noisily. 'We talked in your little office. And then you said I had to come down and be a decoy.'

 

'Bait, more like,' Thalia comments, coming back to the table. She has two cups in her hand, and puts one down next to him. He can feel the heat on his arm. 'Do you remember anything else?'

 

'Terpsichore made me dance,' he says, lifting his head. He props it on his hand and pulls the cup of coffee towards him. 'And then Laodice threw her drink at me.'

 

'Yes, what was that all about?' Dionysus says, looking genuinely curious, but his memory is still unfolding.

 

'And then Erato came and found me, and said she'd find me a nice girl, because...' He looks at them in horror. 'Oh god, _Marpessa,_ ' he says, and puts his head in his hands.

 

'Don't take it so hard, old fellow, there are plenty more girls,' Dionysus says, looking sympathetic. It's too much to bear. He puts his head back on the table as Thalia moves his coffee away to a safe place.

 

'Not like her,' he says, clenching his fists as the pain comes back. 'What am I going to _do?_ '

 

'Drink your coffee,' Thalia says, looking distinctly unsympathetic.

 

He glares at her. 'What do I care about coffee, woman?'

 

'It'll help with your head,' she says calmly, drinking more of her own.

 

'I don't care about my head!' he wails. 'What does my head matter when my heart's been broken?!'

 

'Don't yell, people are still sleeping,' Thalia says sternly. He is clearly going to find no sympathy there in her cold heart. Just like Arty. Why is he constantly surrounded by cold-hearted women?

 

'Just because you've never known love,' he snaps. Thalia looks unruffled, and pushes the coffee cup back to him. He shoves it back pointedly. 'And now I'll never love again.'

 

'Yes, yes,' she says, spooning sugar into his abandoned cup. 'That's what you said about Castalia.'

 

'I never loved her the way I love Marpessa!' he says angrily.

 

'And Cassandra,' Thalia continues, talking more to Dionysus than Apollo now. 'And Hyacinthus. And Cyparissus. And Daphne.'

 

'They mean nothing to me now!'

 

'And Marpessa will be nothing to you in another month,' she says. 'Give it time and the pain will pass, I promise.'

 

He stares at her in outrage. 'How dare you turn my broken heart into a-- a _punchline_ for one of your terrible jokes!'

 

Thalia looks at him coolly. 'I think you'd better go home and get some rest,' she says, standing up. 'Di, I'll rustle up my sisters and lock up behind us.'

 

'Thanks, Thal,' Dionysus says.

 

'I thought the one about the fish was terrible!' Apollo shouts at her retreating back.

 

'Come on, get up,' Dionysus says, hauling him to his feet. 'Let's go and find some breakfast.'

 

'I don't want to eat,' he says sulkily. 'Go home and leave me in peace.'

 

'I would, except we're in my home, for a start,' Dionysus says. He opens another door leading from the kitchen and gestures for Apollo to follow him. 'And your sister will probably commandeer the feds and send them out searching for you if I don't get you home safely soon.' He takes a jacket off a hook set into the wall, which turns out to be Apollo's, and hands it to him. 'Come on, we'll get you sobered up and I'll walk you back.' He's pulling on another jacket as he talks. Apollo trails after him down some stairs and through a dim, dusty corridor that hasn't seen much use.

 

'Look, thanks for putting me up last night, but I can see myself home from here,' Apollo says. His head is still pounding, and now his heart is aching to match. He just wants to go home and sleep for a while and forget everything. Why won't everyone leave him alone in his misery?

 

'And leave myself open to Artemis' retribution if you get lost on the way?' Dionysus says, raising his eyebrows. 'No, I don't think so. You'd do the same if our places were switched.' Apollo has to admit that he has a point. If Arty is waiting for him at home, finding a speakeasy and spending the rest of the day there sounds like an attractive plan.

 

Dionysus opens a door that turns out to be the front door of the building next to the Bacchanalia. It looks faded in the daylight, and the sheer energy of the crowd the night before seems like a dream. 'Do you remember anything after the blue drink?' Dionysus says, closing the door and leading him down the street.

 

'No,' Apollo says, falling into step beside him. They walk past a thin girl with brown pigtails sitting in a doorway. She smiles at Dionysus, who flips a coin from his pocket at her, and waves at Apollo. He doesn't recognise her until she puts the coin in her mouth and swallows it.

 

'Well then,' Dionysus says, sounding gleeful, 'I can tell you all about what happened to you after that.'

 

...

 

'I did _what?_ ' he says, looking at Dionysus in horror. They're at a cafe apparently familiar with serving the victims of a late night: Dionysus exchanges a few nods with other patrons, and the waiters bring them eggs, bacon and coffee without being asked. There are also blinds drawn across the windows, and he's feeling slightly better. Well, his headache is easing. His heart is still in agony.

 

‘One of the charming things about the blue drink is that you're still awake, but you don't remember anything the morning after,' Dionysus says amicably, putting pepper on his scrambled eggs. 'I told you it needs to be eased into. Well, anyway, there you were, up on the stage.'

 

'Did I sing?' Apollo says faintly.

 

'Thal thought you might, she said you did occasionally,' Dionysus says. 'But no, you didn't sing.'

 

'Oh,' Apollo says, 'Good.'

 

'You tried to recite a poem instead.'

 

'Oh _god,_ ' Apollo moans. He puts his head in his hands again; it seems the safest place. 'What was it about?'

 

'About Marpessa, unsurprisingly,' Dionysus says. 'The crowd thought it was entertaining at first, but then they started getting bored. They don't like sad things.' He sighs. 'That's how we lost our best singer, you know. Everything was going well until his sweetheart married someone from the north bank and moved over there, and then he disappeared and we heard he'd tried to get her to take him back, and then that failed, and when he came back he wouldn't sing anything except sad love songs. I had to let him go in the end.'

 

'That's harsh,' Apollo says, sympathetic to fellow broken hearts.

 

'Not as harsh as the girls were,' Dionysus says darkly. 'It was for his own good; they were going to tear him to pieces if it kept going. You're lucky they only threw things at you.'

 

'They did?' Apollo says. 'So that's how I got--' He gestures at the bruise on his cheek.

 

'No, they didn't hit you,' Dionysus says. 'But just then the drink must have taken you over. You were in the middle of a line and you suddenly stopped, dropped the microphone and went headfirst into the crowd.' Apollo can't find a way to react to that properly. 'And that was how you got the bruise,' Dionysus adds helpfully.

 

Apollo eats his bacon mechanically. 'And did anything happen after that?' He might as well hear the full horrific story.

 

'No, you were in a dead faint when we got to you on the floor,' Dionysus says. 'So we took you upstairs and put you on the sofa, and that's where you woke up.'

 

'The girl did warn me about the mennids,' he says thoughtfully. 'I should have listened to her.'

 

Dionysus laughs. 'What, the _maenads?_ No, they loved you. They thought you were the most entertaining thing we've had there for months.'

 

'Then the night wasn't a complete waste,' Apollo says wryly. Dionysus laughs again. He has nice-sounding laugh. It would probably sound nicer if he wasn't its target.

 

'No, it wasn't,' Dionysus says. 'How are you holding up?'

 

'My head's better,' Apollo says. His heart is another matter.

 

'Good,' Dionysus says, leaning forward, serious again. 'Look, I had a chance to think about your theory again.'

 

'What? Oh, that,' Apollo says, trying to remember it all. 'It's probably just coincidence, now that I think about it--'

 

'Shut up and listen,' Dionysus says in a quieter voice. 'I think I know how we can get some proof, but you're not going to like it.'

 

'How?' Apollo says tiredly. He can't find it in him to care about murders just now.

 

'I know someone who might know something, let's keep it at that,' Dionysus says, in an even softer voice. Apollo has to crane forward to hear him. 'The catch is that we'll have to go across the river.'

 

Apollo is abruptly sober again. 'You've got to be joking,' he says hoarsely. Dionysus shakes his head. 'Look-- maybe it's different for you, but _we_ do _not_ cross the river. Not even Uncle. If they knew I was even _talking_ about going over there--' He shivers.

 

'They don't have to know,' Dionysus says.

 

'They'll know,' Apollo says grimly. 'I might as well throw myself in on the way back. It'd be faster. If it's that important, can't you go over and talk to this person and tell me about it later?'

 

Dionysus shakes his head. 'You need to come too. You'll understand once we get there. And besides, it's your theory.'

 

'And you said it was full of holes!' Apollo hisses. 'I _cannot_ cross that river.'

 

'Even if it helps us catch the murderer?'

 

'No,' Apollo says decidedly. 'It's not just me,' he says, trying to explain. 'If they hear that I've gone over, they'll go after Arty. Probably Athena too. I can't put them in danger.'

 

'And how safe do you think they'll be if the killer does get to Zeus and the south bank goes to hell?' Dionysus says urgently. 'We'll only be there for a couple of hours. They can cover for us.'

 

He's not the only one risking something, he realises. The feds might seize Dionysus as soon as he steps off the boat. If they can catch the murderer and bring him before Uncle, they'll understand why they had to go across the river. Probably. Hopefully.

 

'I suppose I owe you some trust,' he says. 'All right. When do we go?'

 

'I'll need to get a message across,' Dionysus says, standing up. They pay for breakfast and set off up the street. 'We can't just turn up on their doorstep. I'll let you know when and where.'

 

They walk along in silence. The streets have come to life once again, and it's turning into a fine day. They give both the river and Uncle's house a wide berth, and turn down towards Delos Street. Apollo mulls over what his life has become. Only yesterday he was chafing at First Sunday, and now he's planning to defy family law. Staring that in the face makes him almost want to write his will. Arty can have everything. Except his poems; he'll tell her to burn them. He ought to sort everything out before he goes over to the north bank, in case he never comes back...

 

'I suppose I also owe you an apology,' he says. Dionysus looks at him, eyebrows raised. 'For being a ass the first time we met.'

 

'Oh, don't trouble yourself about it,' Dionysus says, looking resigned. 'People have said much worse.'

 

'But that doesn't make what I said _better_ ,' Apollo says. 'Or even acceptable. I was in a bad mood, but that's no excuse.'

 

'And yet plenty of people use it as an excuse,' Dionysus says wryly.

 

'Nevertheless, I _am_ sorry,' Apollo says. He offers his hand.

 

Dionysus looks around them for a moment. 'Apology accepted,' he says, shaking it.

 

'What were you looking for?' Apollo asks. They've turn into a quieter street, away from the main roads.

 

'Checking for feds,' Dionysus says with a grin. Apollo laughs suddenly. It feels surprisingly good, even with a broken heart. Or is it broken? Is his heart so fickle? He sighs, good mood dampened, and walks on.

 

'I should say sorry too,' Dionysus says. 'For being cruel about your poems, that is. You clearly put a lot of thought into them.'

 

Apollo is about to accept until he runs over the words again. He narrows his eyes. 'Is that a polite way of saying they're terrible?'

 

'I wouldn't say _terrible,_ ' Dionysus says mildly.

 

'You'd only say they're not very good?' Apollo snaps. 'Go on, tell me!'

 

Dionysus sighs. 'Well, if you really want to know...' He's choosing his words carefully, which only makes it worse. 'Not all poems have to rhyme, you know. It's not the modern style.'

 

'I don't care much for the modern style,' Apollo says dismissively. 'It's all half-sentences and no punctuation. Shakespeare wrote in rhyme. So did Keats and Browning.'

 

'Yes,' Dionysus says, half to himself, 'But they didn't write entirely in rhyming couplets.'

 

'I think I can find my own way home from here,' Apollo says coldly. 'Good day.' He keeps walking, and Dionysus doesn't try to stop him. The nerve of the man, to think he can just critique another person's hard work-- does he know _anything_ about poetry?

 

 _‘He seems to me equal to gods that man  
whoever he is who opposite you  
sits and listens close  
to your sweet speaking  
and lovely laughing---oh it  
puts the heart in my chest on wings  
for when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking  
is left in me...’_

 

Apollo stops and turns around, looking at Dionysus in astonishment. 'Who wrote _that?_ ' he says.

 

'Some ancient lovesick fool,' Dionysus says with a grin. 'The modern style isn't exactly modern, you know.'

 

'Tell me the rest of it,' he says.

 

'I can't, that's the only part I memorised,' Dionysus says, and proceeds to tell him the story of why he memorised it.

 

'...so there I was, standing under her balcony-- it's not as romantic as it seems, you know, my neck was aching from craning my head up to see her-- and reciting the poem, and I thought by the time I got halfway through she'd be convinced to throw a rope down for me or something like that.' Dionysus sighs at his youthful folly. 'The problem was that the girl was made of sterner stuff than I thought, and once I realised she was going to last the whole poem and I only knew the first half, I, er... I tried to make the rest of it up.'

 

'And did it work?' Apollo says, laughing.

 

'Of course not,' Dionysus says. 'And then, to add insult to injury, she sent me a copy of it the next day with a note saying that if I only knew half the poem, I'd probably only be a half-decent sweetheart and she could do better. Good old Ariadne,' he says fondly as Apollo doubles up with laughter. 'I haven't seen her for years. And look, here we are.'

 

Apollo blinks. Delos Street is right there in front of them. 'That was quick,' he says. 'Well, I'd better go in before Arty sends her dogs out to find me.'

 

'Best of luck,' Dionysus says. 'I'll let you know the time and date.' He hesitates. 'Thal sounds cruel, but she's right, you know,' he says. 'About your girl. It does get better, even if you feel properly miserable first.'

 

Apollo shrugs. The pain hasn't faded, but it feels distant now. He can hold it at arms' length while he thinks about the murders. 'See you later,' he says. He walks around the corner, fishing the key out of his pocket.

 

He puts the key in the door but someone yanks it open. He assumes it's Arty but instead it's Athena, looking more dishevelled than he's ever seen her: hair a mess, face haggard, eyes narrowed and teeth bared.

 

She's also utterly furious. 'Where the hell have you _been?!_ '

 

...

 

'Gone two days! Dash away from Father's house without a word! We thought you'd been kidnapped, or killed! Arty was convinced the feds had got you! It took me two hours to convince her not to go to Father and tell him everything!' He has never seen Athena rage like this before, but she's making up for lost time as she drives him up the stairs. 'Worried sick, hasn't slept a wink all night. She's been glued to the window, looking for you. I only got her to have a lie down because I said I'd keep watch. And you come strolling around the corner as though you have all the time in the world! Go in there and comfort your sister,' she says coldly, pointing the way, 'And if you _ever_ frighten her like that again, I will call down such furies upon you as the world has never known.'

 

He knocks at the door, but under Athena's glare he doesn't wait for Arty to answer before he slips inside. She has the curtains drawn, and he picks his way carefully over to her. She's sprawled on the bed, her shoes lying at the end where she must have kicked them off. 'Whosit?' she says as he approaches, lifting her head. 'Polly?'

 

'How are you, dear?' he says gently, crouching so that they're face to face. Arty flings her arms around him. 'Where have you _been?_ ' she howls, head pressed into his shoulder, as he pulls the pins out of her hair and strokes her back. She's still in the clothes she was wearing on sunday. Arty spares a hand to turn her bedside lamp on. 'Are you hurt?' she demands, turning his face to and fro. 'Where did the bruise come from? Where did you _go?_ Why didn't you come back last night? Do you know how _worried_ I've been?' He can sees tear tracks on her face, and she brushes angrily at her eyes. 'You're going to go and make me cry again at this rate,' she says crossly. 'Well? Answer me!'

 

'I went to find Dionysus,' he says. Arty blinks, as though she's completely forgotten why he went away in the first place. 'Remember? You _did_ cover for me, didn't you?'

 

'Of course I did!' she snaps, sounding more like herself. 'Did you find him? What did he say?'

 

'It took me a while--' he stops himself, looking her over. 'Arty, you're still in your sunday best. And so am I. And Athena looks a fright. Why don't you get yourself cleaned up and I can tell you both about what happened?'

 

Arty narrows her eyes. 'When did you become the sensible one?' He looks pointedly at the shoes on her bed, and she follows his glance. 'Oh, all right,' she says resignedly. She sits up on the bed and stretches her arms. 'Stockings are horrible things to try and sleep in, you know. You're not going to sneak away again, are you?' she blurts out suddenly, reaching for his hand again. He hasn't seen her look so worried for years now. It's alarming to see her without any armour at all.

 

'No, I won't,' he reassures her. 'I need a wash myself.'

 

'Right,' Arty says, nodding. 'You can have first turn in the bathroom. Can you send Pal up here? She can borrow some of my things.' He promises to do so, and slips out the door.

 

Athena looks up from her seat on the top step. 'Arty wants to see you,' he says mildly. 'She says you can borrow some of her clothes.'

 

'And where are you going?' Athena snaps as he starts up the stairs.

 

'To my attic,' he says exasperatedly. 'I'm not going to climb out onto the roof. Look, go and freshen up, and I can tell you both about what happened.' Athena watches him until he disappears up the stairs, and he suspects it's going to be a while before she truly forgives him. But he hears the taps start in the bathroom, and Athena knocks on his door with a bowl of steaming water as a sort of peace offering.

 

Half an hour later they're all clean and sitting at the kitchen table downstairs eating tea and toast. Arty has her appetite back, and Athena has stopped looking daggers at him as he tells them what happened. Athena nearly spits tea across the table as he gets to his impromptu poetry recital, but Arty pats his hand. 'I'm sorry about Marpessa,' she says.

 

'You knew too?' he says, too weary to be angry. The lump is back in his chest.

 

'It was in the paper on saturday,' Arty explains. She looks apologetic. 'I knew you'd be useless for first sunday if you heard about it before then. I _was_ going to tell you on sunday night, Polly, I promise.' She really does look sorry, for keeping it from him if not for the actual news itself.

 

'It doesn't matter,' he says, shaking it away. 'I found out on sunday night anyway.'

 

'That's for the best,' Athena says, looking rather awkward. 'We, er, we told everyone at First Sunday that you'd run off because I'd carelessly let the news slip. It was that or the truth,' she says fiercely as Apollo looks at her, aghast.

 

'I suppose it is the truth-- well, anyway, back to the point,' he says quickly, and tells them about his theory. Arty looks sceptical, but Athena soon starts nodding. 'Yes, Demeter has a wheat farm in the country somewhere. And Hera had puerperal fever herself when she had Hebe; that's why there's such a gap between her and Eris. It _does_ make sense.'

 

'But Dionysus is right too,' Arty breaks in. 'Where's the _proof_ , Polly?'

 

'That's what we're trying to get now,' he says. 'Dionysus has a contact.'

 

'I know that look,' Arty says sternly. 'You're not telling us something.'

 

'The person we're going to see,' he says delicately, 'lives on the north bank.'

 

Athena's eyes go wide, and Arty's face blanches. She scrabbles for his hand again, gripping it tight. 'Polly, you _can't_ go. I won't let you.'

 

'You know Father's law,' Athena says quietly.

 

'That's a risk we'll have to take,' he says determinedly. 'We need any information they have.'

 

'And how do you know that the information is worth it?' Arty snaps. 'How do we know that this person even exists? How do we know that Dionysus isn't going to lead you straight to the feds and pin the whole thing on you?'

 

'You've changed your tune,' he says. 'You were the one who told me I should trust Dionysus. And _you_ \--' he looks at Athena 'were the one who brought him into this in the first place.'

 

'We didn't know that it would end up like this!' Athena hisses.

 

'Polly, please don't go,' Arty says. 'People go across the river and never come back.'

 

'Dionysus has,' he says. 'Gone over and come back, that is. Look, he's the one taking the risk here. The feds are probably still trying to pin the first murder on him; you know they'll never let a suspect go. They're like dogs with a bone. And if Uncle gets word of this and hauls us in, they'll come down hard on me even though I'm family. What do think they'll do to _him?_ ' The girls are silent, mulling it over. 'Look, I owe him some trust. If he says this person can help us, I believe him.'

 

'Are you scared?' Arty says softly.

 

'Witless,' he admits. It's a relief to say so, even if he comes off as a coward.

 

'Good,' Athena says. 'You'd be an idiot if you weren't afraid. Well, more so.' Apollo throws a crust of his toast at her. She bats it away, and stands up. 'I should go home.'

 

'I can walk you over,' he says. Arty looks afraid again, and Athena stares him down.

 

'No, I'm quite all right by myself,' she says briskly. 'No-one's given me any trouble after what Father did to the last one. When are you leaving?'

 

'I'm not sure,' he says. 'Dionysus said he'd have to get a message across first.'

 

'Let me know,' Athena says, and leaves them.

 

Arty yawns. 'I think I'd better have a proper sleep,' she says wearily. 'I'll never get everything ready for my girls if you keep me up like this.'

 

'I _am_ sorry,' he says. 'For frightening you. I didn't think I'd be there so long, but it took me hours to find the place, and then Dionysus made me stay and entertain his patrons.'

 

'If I'd known, I would have come down and watched you,' Arty says. 'Tell me the part about you falling off the stage again?' He repeats it dutifully, and she laughs until her hair hangs in her face. She touches the bruise on his face gently. 'You're lucky to only have that. Some of the stories about those girls are quite hair-raising.'

 

'I'm sure I could handle them,' he says mildly. Arty shakes her head, but doesn't argue the point. 'I'm going to bed,' she says, getting up.

 

'Oh, do you have saturday's paper?' he says. Arty narrows her eyes at him, but he looks back innocently.

 

'It's upstairs,' she says. He follows her up and she fetches it from her room. No doubt she hid it there in case he stumbled across the news. 'Don't wallow,' she says, handing it to him.

 

He goes upstairs and reads from cover to cover. He's missed several days of news, but it all seems the same. Near the back he finds the list of society announcements, and there it is in small print: _Miss Marpessa and Mr Idas have announced their engagement._

 

 _Idas._ He can't remember meeting the man. Well, he will sort out this murder business first, and then he can give his full attention to the more important matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: the poem is one of Sappho’s. It’s one of her incomplete poems, so the joke is in fact on Dionysus. The translation I used is from http://home.infionline.net/~ddisse/sappho.html


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, non-graphic violence]

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, non-graphic violence]

 

The next day a note appears, slipped under the door. _Friday,_ it says, _midday. Meet me at Pal's at ten._

 

Apollo brings it to Arty, who reads it over silently. 'I'm coming with you,' she says.

 

'What? Arty, _no_ \--'

 

'To Pal's, you dolt. What are your clothes like? You'll need to be even more respectable than for Hera.'

 

'I didn't think you could be more respectable than for--'

 

She slams her hand on the table. 'Take this seriously, for heaven's sake!' She looks about to cry again.

 

He kneels down and puts his arms around her. 'I'm crossing the river, Arty, not _dying_.'

 

'You don't know that,' she sniffles into his shoulder. 'Polly, have you realised where you're going?'

 

'To the north bank,' he says carefully, trying to answer seriously.

 

'And think of what that means for a moment! It's not just me you're leaving behind, it's Pal and Uncle and all the family, and all our contacts here. Everyone you know here. _Everyone,_ ' she says forcefully. 'Polly, if something happens to you over there, we won't be able to help you.' She looks sick with fear, for him. Arty is never afraid for herself.

 

He swallows. He hasn't considered this before. 'I'll be careful,' he promises.

 

'Yes,' Arty agrees, 'You will.'

 

...

 

Friday comes rather too quickly.

 

Apollo wakes up soon after dawn, even before Arty, and creeps downstairs. He makes himself toast and lets it burn twice before he gives up. He's too distracted. He sits at the table instead, trying to memorise the kitchen, the house. Then he blinks and shakes himself. This is ridiculous. Arty has got to him. It's going to be fine--

 

He jumps as Arty comes up behind me. She looks him up and down, sighing. 'You're going to be useless if you're full of nerves,' she says. 'Come on, let's go and find some breakfast.'

 

They walk up and down the streets. They have to dodge people coming and going; even at this early hour, the south bank is full of life. The south bank is always lively, whatever time of day, but from all the reports the north bank is practically lifeless whatever time it is. He wonders if the feds will recognise him, or Dionysus. Perhaps they should have gone at night instead, but according to Dionysus there are barely any people out after sunset, and they'd only attract attention. So he tells himself. Arty finds a cafe and orders breakfast for both of them, but the food tastes muted. He avoids the coffee; he has more than enough energy.

 

They sit and watch the people go past until the clocks sound half past nine. 'We'd better get off to Pal's,' Arty says, looking pale. They begin to walk up the street. Arty walks fast, clutching his arm. He doesn't remember exactly where Pal lives but he's sure it doesn't take half an hour to walk there. Arty seems as nervous as he is, glancing around. What if they're being followed? What if Uncle has people waiting for them at the river? He pushes the thoughts away.

 

'Come in here,' Arty says, pulling him into a park. It's hardly bigger than a block, but there's a bench in the middle under an old elm tree. When they sit there the outside world seems to fade away a little. 'I wanted to give you this, before you leave,' Arty says. She pulls something out of her pocket and offers it to him.

 

He recognises it immediately; the little crescent moon on a silver chain. Selene gave it to Arty for the first birthday they spent with them, he remembers; they would have only been five or six. Arty's barely taken it off since. 'Arty, no,' he says gently.

 

'It'll bring you luck,' she insists. 'Take it, Polly.'

 

'I've got luck,' he says, showing her his shirtsleeves. The cufflinks are little sunbursts. Helios gave them to him on the same day Arty got her necklace, but he's had less use out of them. Still, a little luck won't go astray.

 

'That's for the day,' Arty says. 'What if you're there overnight? You'll need the moon at night.' And she makes him take the necklace.

 

'I'll keep it safe until I give it back,' he promises. He puts it around his neck and tucks it under his shirt. The metal feels cold, but soon warms against his skin. 'Thank-you,' he adds, squeezing her hand.

 

'Always,' Arty promises, squeezing back. She stands up and pulls him to his feet. 'Come on. Pal will be waiting.'

 

...

 

Dionysus is already waiting at Athena's flat. He looks Apollo up and down, and nods. 'You'll blend right in,' he says. Apollo isn't sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment.

 

'We thought it was better if we don't see you off at the river,' Athena says. Arty looks at her for a minute before she nods. 'Good luck,' Athena says, shaking their hands. Arty envelops him in a crushing hug. 'Be careful,' she whispers.

 

'I'll be back soon,' he manages to wheeze.

 

'You'd better be,' Arty says, releasing him. 'And _you_ \--' she points at Dionysus, eyes cold '--if you let _anything_ happen to my brother, I will _hunt you down._ '

 

'Understood,' Dionysus says gravely. 'Well, we'd better be off.'

 

'Don't wait up this time,' Apollo says, waving as they walk away. The last thing he sees is Arty at the door, trying to smile bravely; Athena has her arm around her waist. At least they can keep each other company.

 

He looks at Dionysus sidelong. 'How often have you been over there?'

 

'A few times,' Dionysus says. 'I was curious, and then I learned that it wasn't the done thing. So I stopped.'

 

'There's no rule saying that you can't go over,' Apollo says. 'That only applies to the family.'

 

'Oh, I know,' Dionysus agrees. 'But people look at you so oddly when you come back, as though you've come back from the dead.' He yawns and rubs at his eyes. 'Lord knows I feel half dead right now. Late night, you know.'

 

'You-- we're crossing the river, and you're still hungover?' Apollo splutters.

 

Dionysus frowns at him. 'I am _not_ hungover,' he says peevishly. 'Only tired. I'll be all right.'

 

'What on earth were you doing, have a late night before this?' Apollo hisses.

 

'That's my work,' Dionysus says. 'Besides, if we do die today, I'd like to die knowing I had a terrific last night on earth.'

 

Apollo hasn't thought about it that way. 'Do you think we're going to die?' he says cautiously.

 

'Of course not,' Dionysus says, waving his concern away. 'But we need to tread carefully. The feds are thick on the ground over there.' They walk on in silence, until he sees Dionysus watching him sidelong. 'What are you doing?'

 

'Checking how you walk,' Dionysus answers. 'The feds keep an eye on you if you walk like someone with unsavoury business. They come down hard on anyone skulking around.'

 

'And I pass muster?' he says.

 

'Definitely,' Dionysus says. 'You couldn't skulk if your life depended on it. You walk like one of them.'

 

'Oh,' Apollo says. 'Good. Will you be all right?'

 

'I'll blend in,' Dionysus says airily. He finds that hard to believe.

 

He can't leave it alone. 'Do I _really_ walk like one of them?'

 

'Like a model citizen,' Dionysus says amusedly. 'Do you know, when I first saw you I thought you were one of them?'

 

'And vice versa,' Apollo says shortly. Dionysus only smiles, and they walk down to the river.

 

...

 

They join the small line of people queuing up for the ferry across the river. Apollo keeps glancing around, certain that they're being watched, until Dionysus nudges him pointedly. 'Play it cool,' the other man says sharply. 'Zeus' goons aren't so different from the feds.' He tries to relax after that, but he can still feel imaginary eyes itching on his skin. The boat ride is short, for such a wide river. He stands at the railing, feeling a little queasy. The river has waves that make the boat rock, and the smell is all wrong. He gulps hard and breathes deeply. If he throws up it will all be over. Dionysus seems unruffled, although he blinks at the light. The ferry docks at the strange shore and they follow the line of people across the gangway and onto dry land. Uncharted territory, Apollo thinks, but the docks look fairly similar to the ones on the south bank. The streets are quieter, and the people hurry about their business. They keep their heads down and no-one seems to be idle. Dionysus sets off up the street and he plunges after, fearful of being left in this strange place. There is no-one here he recognises, and he begins to understand what Arty meant. He has gone beyond his family's reach.

 

The streets are wide and the gutters are clean on the north bank. The buildings are made from great stone slabs. Some have been carved into columns and statues, but most are plain. There is little artistry here. The streets are set out in a grid and the cars go up and down ceaselessly. There seem to be less people here, but he counts five uniformed feds in three blocks. Tight as sardines, Dionysus said, and he was right. He tries to look as innocent and upstanding as possible, keeping his eyes on a point in the distance as they walk past each policeman. They're not stopped by anyone.

 

'How far is it?' he asks quietly as they turn onto another wide, quiet street.

 

'It's on the hill,' Dionysus murmurs back. Maybe the hangover has made him careless, but the further on they go, the more relaxed he seems to become. He strolls up the streets as though they're on their way to the Bacchanalia, looking up at the buildings with something that looks like recognition. He also seems to know exactly where they're going, barely pausing to check the street signs.

 

'How do you know this person?' Apollo asks.

 

'Old friend,' is the reply, and Dionysus doesn't elaborate.

 

The streets begin to climb. They go up one and across another, zigzaging their way up the hill until Apollo has lost track of how far they've come. When he pauses for a moment, calves aching, he can see half the city spread out beneath them. From here the south bank looks like a stain on the earth, spreading out irregularly and with no heed to what it covers. The river shines green-grey between the two halves of the city.

 

'Come on,' Dionysus says, bringing him back to the present. 'It's not much further.' He takes them up a street that must run straight up the hill; climbing steeply above them. It must run past the city into the mountains, but thankfully they don't follow it to its end.

 

Apollo takes his eyes off his feet and looks around them again. They're even higher, and the buildings have turned into houses. _Mansions_ is a better word for them, really; they remind him of Uncle's house, albeit without the high wall. This doesn't seem like the place for an informer, and he wonders if Arty was right about the trap.

 

'Who’s your contact?' he says.

 

'You'll see soon,' Dionysus replies, which is not an answer. Apollo pretends to tie his shoelace and slips the knife into his hand. Something is not right here, he can feel it.

 

Dionysus turns the corner into a narrower street, lined with gardens and garages belonging to the mansions. He stops, finally, at a door that looks like all the others, and knocks. They wait there, getting their breath back. Eventually the door opens, and an old man peers out at them through yellowed eyes. Any words he says are lost in an enormous, unkempt beard, but Dionysus steps forward, smiling. 'Charon, I hope you're keeping well,' he says.

 

The man's face breaks into a smile, showing hideous teeth. 'Master Dionysus,' he says, 'You've grown up, lad, must be five years now! Come in, come in, they're waiting for you.' He pulls the door open further and sees Apollo for the first time. He looks him up and down, and his eyes narrow again.

 

'This is Apollo, a friend of mine,' Dionysus says, taking his elbow and pulling him forward. Charon still looks suspicious buts nods and lets them through.

 

'Put your knife away,' Dionysus says quietly over the sound of the door being wedged shut. Apollo slips it into his jacket pocket as Charon bustles past and leads them down a long corridor. He looks out of a window as they pass and sees neatly tended beds planted with some sort of white flower. Trees stand in the centre of the garden, heavy with fruit. There is a high wall at the front of the house, but over it he sees the glitter of the sea. They are very high up now. Where _are_ they? Whose house is this, and why is Dionysus so relaxed? He is glad he has the knife close to hand.

 

Charon leads them through another corridor. This one is wider and has seen more use, but it seems like a trap. Perhaps it’s the house itself, with its high ceilings and dark, heavy furniture. The windows are tall and narrow, letting in little light; it feels quite cold. Apollo shivers, despite himself, but Dionysus strides on behind the old man. Dionysus knows this man. This man knows Dionysus, well enough to be affectionate. He is not sure if he wants to think about what that means, what all of this means: house, garden, the stifled north bank, Dionysus who teemed with life at the dancehall and yet who walks through this place so confidently.

 

Charon opens another door and ushers them through. This room is warmer, airier, lighter; the windows are much larger and Apollo feels comforted, against all reason, by the sunlight pouring into the room. The furniture looks more modern, and there are flowers on the table. He wonders how a room like this could exist in such a dark, gloomy house, when he realises that the room is occupied. Charon closes the door behind them, and two people get up from the sofa.

 

One is a woman, who rushes towards Dionysus with a cry of happiness, taking him in her arms; the subtle colours of her dress are outshone by her golden hair. She seems familiar, but Apollo can't think where he's seen her before. Then he sees the second person. He is tall, dark-haired and with a grave-looking face, but it breaks into a smile as he strides over to Dionysus, putting his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

 

Apollo recognises him, and feels his blood turn icy.

 

'Come here,' Dionysus says, taking his arm and pulling him towards the pair. 'This is Apollo, a friend of mine. Apollo, this is my mother, Persephone.'

 

'Pleased to meet you,' the woman says, shaking his hand firmly. He smiles weakly. Terror has stolen his voice.

 

'And this is my father,' Dionysus continues. Apollo gulps and looks up into the cool grey eyes. 'Hades,' Dionysus continues, but he seems very far away.

 

Yes, he knows. Hades, the mayor of their city, the man whose prohibitive laws against alcohol have played right into Uncle's hands, the man whom the chief of police reports to, the very last man he should be meeting if he wants to live a full and happy life.

 

Oh, he thinks, I am so very far from home.

 

...

 

They go into a dining room, where Apollo sits at one end of a long, narrow table across from Dionysus as long, narrow candles burn in their holders. He eats mechanically, with absolutely no appetite; Hera would sing praises for his table manners. He says absolutely nothing at all, while Dionysus and Persephone talk. He also tries as hard as he possibly can not to listen, to fade into the wallpaper, to become invisible and free from Hades' eyes. He tries very hard not to think. He also knows full well that this is unnecessary, as his cause is lost already: they will call the feds and have him taken away, and they will ask him any number of questions and wait until he gives them the answers they want (and he will) and then they will take him to one of their courts and have a jury sentence him for the murders. His best hope is life imprisonment; he suspects the noose or the chair will be his fate instead. Whatever the verdict, he will be utterly alone: he cannot speak of Arty, or Athena, or Uncle, or anyone he has ever known; he cannot think of them in case he betrays them. He will have no sister, no friends, no relatives, no acquaintances; he will be nothing and nobody. And he will be thankful for it, for this is a far kinder fate than any that await him should he fall back into Uncle's hands.

 

When their plates are taken away, he listens without any emotion to Hades and Dionysus rise from their seats and go away into another room. He is far beyond any sort of fear now. He blinks and finds the table cleared; he must have been staring into space. The golden-haired woman is looking at him, not unkindly. Where has he seen her? If he could only think through terror for a moment...

 

'It's a lovely day, isn't it?' she says. 'Come outside and let me show you the garden. We'll take our drinks on the patio,' she adds to a silent maid. She stands, and he remembers himself and stands up too. She comes around the table and takes his arm. It feels like a manacle, and he is only barely aware of her guiding him out through another door, down a hall and outside into the garden.

 

The sun and the gentle breezes revive him slightly. He had felt truly dead under the roof of that house, as though it was the closest the architect could come to a tomb. The woman smiles at him, and says something.

 

'I'm sorry, I didn't hear,' Apollo manages.

 

'Come and sit down,' she says, leading him away between the rows of plants to a stone bench beneath one of the trees. They sit there in silence for what seems like half an eternity. He wonders which door the feds will come through.

 

'Now, Apollo,' she says, patting his shoulder, 'I'm afraid we've quite petrified you.'

 

'Oh, no,' he says, doing his best not to squeak, 'Not at all.'

 

'Don't give me that,' she says, sounding almost like Arty-- but he can't think of Arty ever again. 'You're a son of the south bank, and you're deep in unknown territory. You'd be a fool not to be afraid.'

 

'Well,' he says, 'If you put it that way, yes.'

 

'That's better,' she says. 'My husband has a fearsome aspect, but you'll come to no harm here.' He wonders what her definition of _harm_ is. 'I suppose you're wondering about a few things, now that you've seen our little family.'

 

'Er...' He hasn't had the chance to think, but as he mulls over the events of the past hour, they don't seem to fit with the world as he sees it. 'You are... Dionysus' mother?' She nods. 'Well, ah--'

 

'Persephone,' she supplies.

 

'Persephone,' he says, trying to buy time, 'You're looking very well for a woman of your years.' Oh, no, no, that's not the right thing to say, you _never_ mention a woman's age-- he is never going to see daylight again--

 

Persephone laughs. 'The grand old age of thirty-eight?' she says, smiling. 'Well, once I thought that was a terribly old age too. You have questions that you're too polite to ask, so here are the answers: Dionysus is our foster son. We took him in as our own as a kindness to his father, and to ourselves. We couldn't have children, you see,' she says quickly. A shadow passes over her face, and suddenly he recognises her-- not Persephone herself, but whose daughter she is.

 

But something else makes him pause. 'A kindness to his father?'

 

Persephone looks at him exasperatedly. 'Haven’t you solved that yourself yet?' she says. 'Oh, very well: the man that my son calls Father is his uncle, and he calls the man who fathered him nothing in particular, except possibly _sir_. Where Zeus has come and gone, Hera follows, even into foreign lands. Dionysus was born in Turkey. His mother was killed by a lightning strike, of all things, when he was a little boy, and then Hera found him. And she thought of us, bless her.'

 

Apollo sits in the shade of the tree, mind reeling, trying to make sense of all this. He should have known. Uncle's children all have a certain air about them; a charisma, a talent. He knew the moment he saw Dionysus working his magic at the Bacchanalia, and managed to hide it even from himself. 'I've been a fool,' he says out loud.

 

'No more than half the city,' Persephone says mildly. The maid appears with two glasses; the liquid inside glows a clear red. 'It's made with tonic water,' Persephone explains as she hands one to him. 'Very refreshing.' He's about to drink some when an old story flares in his head: do not eat the food in fairyland, or you'll never be able to leave. Or something like it.

 

'It's made with cranberries,' Persephone says, watching him watch the drink. 'The pomegranates aren't in season yet. You're quite safe.' He doesn't understand quite what she means, but he does drink, and it _is_ refreshing.

 

'I'm surprised you didn't know,' she says thoughtfully. 'Zeus' children are easy to spot, if you look for them. You _are_ one of his?' He nods.

 

'I wasn't looking,' he admits. Blinded by appearances. He wouldn't last a day in fairyland.

 

'I don't remember you,' Persephone continues. 'How old is Hebe now?'

 

'I'm not quite sure. She's married,' he says, caught offside.

 

'Married? Well, that's old,' she says with another laugh. 'I've been gone a long time.'

 

'You were once...?' The family resemblance is proof, but he can barely believe it.

 

'I was once a southbanker,' she says. 'Just like you, once upon a time. And then I grew up, fell in love, and crossed the river.'

 

'That must have been hard,' he says.

 

'I hope you never know how much,' Persephone says fervently. 'I had to forget everything I knew when I lived south of the river, and they had to forget they ever knew me. I'm not surprised you didn't know who I was. Who _we_ were. It's hard, but worthwhile things are hard. If they're easy, you forget why you do them.' She sighs. 'Does Hera still hold the dinners on the First Sunday?'

 

'Yes,' Apollo says ruefully, and she laughs at that too. 'There's always a place empty there, you know. For you. I didn't understand why until now.'

 

'One place?'

 

'No. Two,' he says, frowning.

 

'And who might that be for?'

 

 _For someone who will never fill it,_ Athena said. 'Good grief,' he says, understanding. He drinks some more to cope.

 

'We're an odd family, aren't we?' Persephone says, reaching up to touch a pomegranate gently.

 

 _The siblings,_ the caption said. So the man in the dark robe and the jewellery-- oh, suddenly his theory is holding much more water. He is pleased until he remembers where he is. 'I think I need to talk to your husband,' he says.

 

'Don't be afraid, he doesn't bite,' Persephone says. She looks amused more than anything. He stands up and thanks her for the drink. He is halfway back to the house when he remembers, and comes back to her.

 

She has picked a pomegranate from the trees, breaking the skin open to get at the seeds. 'What now, cousin?' she says, smiling.

 

'I met your mother,' he says, 'Demeter. I didn't understand until today.'

 

Persephone's smile vanishes. 'How is she?' she asks hesitantly.

 

'She seemed... upset,' he says, trying to put it delicately.

 

Persephone looks at the pomegranate in her lap. 'It must be hard for her, at this time of year,' she says. 'We always loved spending time at the farm in summer, you see.'

 

'She said she missed you,' he says. 'Very much.'

 

'Yes, I'm sure,' Persephone says. She bites her lip, just as her mother does. 'I miss her too.'

 

Apollo feels like a monster, opening up what is clearly an old and painful wound. 'I could take a message for you,' he offers.

 

Persephone looks up at him again, smiling sadly. Her eyes are bright. 'And what could I say that she would not already know? _I love you? I miss you? I wish there had been another way?_ ' She shakes her head. 'You're kind to think of it, but it's best that we have no contact. Nothing that they can trace back to either side. We'll meet again one day, I'm sure.' She smiles again, weakly. 'Go on, go and talk with my husband. And if you would, take care of my son.'

 

'Yes, I will,' he promises, and leaves her in the tree's shadow.

 

...

 

He walks back to the house, realising as he goes that he has no idea where Dionysus and his father might have gone, but they're waiting for him inside the doorway. 'There you are,' Dionysus says. 'Sorry about Mother, she does like to steal young men away.' Apollo doesn't dare laugh, with Persephone's husband standing there. 'We've been talking,' Dionysus says. 'Come back to the study and you can tell Father about your theory.'

 

So they do, and he does, tripping over his words and convinced now that he is making the whole thing up. Hades looks thoughtful as he listens to it in silence, reclining in his chair.

 

'It seems odd to murder a man and arrange the corpse to look like me, instead of trying to murder me from the start,' he comments.

 

Apollo has no answers for that. 'Well, not really, Father,' Dionysus says. 'You've got any number of guards, and if someone attacked you the whole city would be in an uproar. Much easier to stab someone in the street.'

 

'But _why?_ ' Hades says, looking between them.

 

'Perhaps... to show the people that even the rich and powerful can be killed?' Apollo suggests. Hades glances at him and he feels like a fool.

 

'Not killed,' he says in his smooth, grave voice. 'But weakened, certainly. And yet... there are few left in the city who remember us when we were young, as these murders depict us.' And he picks up the photograph from his desk-- no, the photograph that used to hang in Uncle’s library. Apollo has completely forgotten it. Hades looks at the people. 'I think very few people would see the link between the murder victims, my brothers and sisters in their youth, and who we have become. The years have not been kind to us.'

 

'Only in a matter of speaking,' Dionysus says. 'Between you, Zeus and Poseidon, you control the whole city.'

 

'And most of my time is spent keeping my brothers out of the newspapers. My work has become nothing but silencing and bribes. I wonder if we were happier here, with no responsibilities,' Hades says, looking at the photograph. 'We've had the city for twenty-odd years. That is a small span of time in the grand schemes of the world. There were others before us, and others will come after us one day--' he breaks off suddenly, looking thoughtful.

 

'I need to check something,' he says, standing abruptly. 'I will return.' He closes the door behind him, and they are left alone.

 

Apollo turns to Dionysus. 'When the _hell_ were you going to tell me?'

 

Dionysus looks annoyed. 'Tell you what?'

 

'Tell me-- that you're the mayor's son? That you knew who he was as soon as I showed you the photograph? That you grew up in the city?' Apollo shakes his head angrily. 'You brought me up here and now I can't ever go home.'

 

' _What_ are you talking about?' Dionysus says.

 

'I. Cannot. Go. Home. The mayor of the city knows who I am. Probably knows everything about me, or he will soon. If I go back I'll lead them right to--' he breaks off. 'To everyone.'

 

'The mayor,' Dionysus says slowly, 'Is your _uncle_. And just told you he keeps our family out of the newspapers. You've got nothing to fear from him. Did you really think you'd burst into flame as soon as you touched the north bank? I've crossed the river dozens of times, and it hasn't affected me.'

 

'It's different,' Apollo says. 'You grew up here. On the north bank.'

 

'Listen,' Dionysus says, speaking quickly, 'Do you really believe that Poseidon never does business with the riverside docks on the north bank? Or that Aphrodite doesn't cross the river to dance at every debutante ball she can find? Zeus and Hera keep to the south bank because they'll be recognised if they cross. The rest of us can slip by if we keep our heads down.'

 

'You should have told me about them,' Apollo says.

 

Dionysus looks at him steadily. 'Would you have believed me if I told you?'

 

He's saved from answering when Hades comes back. 'As I thought,' the man says, but doesn't elaborate. He gives a folded piece of paper to Dionysus. 'I hope that is helpful to you.'

 

'Thank-you, Father,' Dionysus says, standing up.

 

'Thank-you, sir,' Apollo echoes.

 

Hades passes the photograph back to him. 'I believe this is yours?'

 

'Oh, er, no,' he says. 'I... borrowed it from Uncle's library. But I'll make sure it's back in its rightful place.'

 

'That is wise. I would do much to avoid Hera's wrath,' Hades says. He turns to Dionysus again. 'Do you still practice your parlour tricks?'

 

Dionysus looks surprised. 'Yes, I do. Not many people ask for them these days.'

 

'Try them,' Hades advises. 'Sometimes they answer.' Apollo is mystified, but Dionysus seems to understand.

 

Their visit is at an end, apparently: Persephone meets them in the hall, embracing Dionysus and nodding at Apollo. Hades shakes his hand and pats his son's shoulder. Charon leads them out the way they came and they emerge into the quiet back street, blinking at the light. It feels like days have gone by, but it must be only a few hours since they walked to the ferry.

 

'What did he--'

 

'Not here,' Dionysus says quickly. 'Let's get back, and then we can talk.'

 

They walk in silence down the quiet streets, past the sombre buildings and the solemn people, down to the river and the ferry on the shore. When they step off the boat onto the south bank Apollo finally lets himself relax a little. He is home, and with all his limbs intact. There are people everyone, some of whom jostle him as they go past, shouting and rushing as they go about their lives, and he soaks it all up.

 

'Back to Pal's?' Dionysus says, and he nods. He waits until they've moved away from the crowded docks, past the shops and into the quieter residential streets. They turn down a narrow alley, a shortcut to the street Athena lives on. He slips the knife out of his pocket, grabs Dionysus by his shirt collar and slams him against the wall.

 

'If you _ever_ deceive me like that again,' he says, laying the knife against the man's cheek, 'I will cut your face to shreds. Understand?'

 

Dionysus shows no fear of the blade next to his eye. 'Go on,' he says, very quietly. 'If you think I deserve it. I brought you there and back safely. Now you even know a little more about the great wide world we live in.'

 

'You _lied_ to me!' Apollo hisses. 'I _trusted_ you!'

 

'And here you are, safe and sound in your own land,' Dionysus hisses back. 'I don't owe you my life story. If you want to butcher me and pretend that makes you brave, then get on with it before someone picks your pocket. But if you'd rather find whoever's murdered these people, put your damn knife away and let me tell you and Pal and Artemis what I learned.'

 

There's a pause that seems to stretch half a year. Eventually Apollo puts the knife away and steps back. Dionysus straightens his clothes, and they walk on in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: In one of Dionysus’ birth stories, he’s the son of Persephone and Zeus and is raised in the Underworld. In another, he’s the son of Zeus and Semele, a princess of either Ethiopia or Asia Minor (modern Turkey). I’ve done my best to combine the two.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, discussion of murders]

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: 1920s racism, 1920s sexism, discussion of murders]

 

They reach Athena's flat and she lets them in with a questioning look. Dionysus shakes his head almost imperceptibly, although that could mean _not here, in the street_ or almost anything else. Arty is sitting at the table with a newspaper spread out, but she springs to her feet as soon as Apollo comes in and hugs him tightly. He hugs back, slipping her necklace into her pocket as he does. 'Thanks for the luck,' he murmurs.

 

'You're welcome,' she whispers, pulling back to look him up and down. She nods, apparently satisfied that he hasn't come to any fresh harm. 'Did you find anything?'

 

'Well,' Apollo says, inclining his head towards Dionysus.

 

Dionysus picks up the thread, telling them what Hades thinks of the whole matter, all without once looking at him. He's made a mess of things again, he realises, but the girls are too interested in the new information.

 

'Others before us?' Athena repeats doubtfully. 'Well, I suppose Father ousted _someone_ from the city when we took over the business, but there's nothing in the records. And those in the know are hardly going to talk.'

 

'Hades had some ideas on that front,' Dionysus says. Athena looks curious, and he wonders if she knows this man is the mayor's foster son, but Dionysus doesn't elaborate. Instead he says, 'He also thought I should try... other sources. They're hard to reach.'

 

'Even harder than the north bank?' Artemis says dubiously. 'How far will you have to travel? Time's ticking...'

 

'No travel involved,' Dionysus reassures her.

 

'Then _who?_ ' she says. Athena looks at him expectantly, and even Apollo finds himself leaning towards the man he held a knife to just before.

 

'I used to... try to speak to the spirits,' Dionysus says uneasily. 'For entertainment, you know, that sort of thing.' He looks defensive, and for good reason. Athena is impervious to the supernatural.

 

She looks exasperated. 'You spend all day on the north bank, and the only advice you get is to call up _ghosts?_ ' she says in disbelief. 'There's no such thing! We're in the twentieth century, for heaven's sake!'

 

'What could they tell you?' Arty says, looking thoughtful.

 

'Well, there's a theory that a murdered person haunts their killer,' Dionysus explains. 'If we can get to one of them, they might be able to tell us who he is, or give us some idea of how to find him.'

 

'And how are they going to tell us what he looks like?' Apollo snaps. 'They were all stabbed from behind!'

 

'Nevertheless,' Dionysus says coldly, 'That's the theory. An alternate idea is that the atmosphere of a seance lets the people there communicate with their own thoughts, if you will. Their subconscious thoughts, which they can't get to under normal circumstances. Maybe one of us has something in our mind that would help, but we haven't made the connection.'

 

Athena leans back, shaking her head. 'Utter rubbish, Di,' she says wearily, 'I never thought you'd be one for hocus-pocus.'

 

Dionysus glares at her. 'And how far, exactly, have we come to solving this whole mess with logic and reason?' he says stiffly.

 

'This far!' Athena says hotly.

 

'Then have a little faith,' Dionysus says. 'Unless you don't believe in that either?'

 

'I believe in things I can see!' Athena snaps. 'I believe in solid evidence! Even if you can talk to the spirits, we can't go to Father and tell him we got our information from _ghosts!_ And we're running out of time!'

 

'What?' Apollo says. 'What do you mean?'

 

Arty turns to the newspaper on the table, combing through the pages until she pulls one out. 'Here,' she says, passing it to him. Halfway down there's a small article titled "Woman Found Stabbed In Home". He reads about a woman found in her kitchen, stabbed with a sharp knife, apparently from behind. She'd been found laid out in front of her oven with kitchen utensils arranged around her, a candle burning at her head and her feet. He passes it to Dionysus wordlessly.

 

'So that's Hestia,' Arty says quietly. Five murders, one to go.

 

'Well, that works in our favour,' Dionysus says briskly, folding the paper. 'It's easier to contact the recently dead.'

 

Athena stares at him, appalled and speechless. 'Look,' Apollo says before she explodes. 'We're running out of options. If we give this a go and nothing happens, then that's our bad luck. But if we actually manage to contact someone and it helps us find the killer, we can make up a logical explanation for it later.'

 

'How long would this take?' Arty says to Dionysus.

 

'An evening, at most,' he says. 'I'll need to get the equipment, but we could have it tonight if we move smartly.'

 

'Why don't we do that, then?' Arty says, looking around the table. Athena abruptly gets up and stalks away. They hear the door to her bedroom slam. 'Can you get whatever you need over to Delos Street?' Arty says to Dionysus. 'Or is it too heavy? Polly can give you a hand--'

 

'No, I can manage it on my own,' Dionysus interrupts. 'We need at least four people for it, though. Can you talk Pal out of her funk and get her over there?'

 

Arty bites her lip. 'I'll try,' she says. 'She's stressed about all this, and worried about Uncle, and frightened for him. Even more so because he acts as though he's bulletproof. He can be a real piece of work but she really _does_ love him, you know, even if she doesn't show it. She saw the news about the latest body and panicked. She's convinced they'll go after Uncle himself next instead of just some poor man who looks like him.' She sighs. 'It's good of you to arrange it tonight,' she says gratefully. 'You two must be exhausted. What's the north bank like, after all that?'

 

'Strange,' says Apollo.

 

'Different,' says Dionysus.

 

'And rather lifeless,' Apollo adds. 'The people over there look like they're at a funeral all the time.'

 

'I'll stick to the south bank, I think,' Arty says decidedly.

 

Dionysus gets to his feet. 'I'll go and get organised,' he says. Arty sees him out and he hears them talking quietly for a few moments. When Arty comes back she frowns at him. 'I thanked him for getting you there and back in one piece, and he said you were lucky to have such a caring sister. Except he looked as though he didn't think you deserved one.'

 

'We had a disagreement,' he says shortly. 'Just after we got back.'

 

Arty exhales loudly through her nose. 'I won't even _ask_ what you said to him this time,' she sighs. 'Whatever it was, clear it up soon. We're getting close to solving this, Polly, I can feel it.'

 

'I hope so,' he says. 'The next contact he'll dig up probably lives on the moon.'

 

'Hunting instincts never lie,' Arty declares. 'Can you go home and get the place tidied up? I'll bring Pal over once she feels better.'

 

Apollo walks home in a downcast mood, wishing he could have redone the few minutes in the alley. It was the sensible thing to do, according to his survival instincts. In a city like this you can't rely on honour, or faith; fear is a much better security blanket. There is a quieter voice coming through the raucus in his head, however, sounding a little like Helios trying to teach him ethics: _you made him feel as though you never trusted him,_ it says. _He'll remember you saying that you owed him some faith, and he'll believe now that you were lying as you said it. And you don't threaten your equals. You only threaten those you consider inferior_. He has made a complete mess of things, regardless of whether it seemed like a sound idea at the time. No wonder Dionysus will barely speak to him now.

 

If he'd pushed the anger away for a moment and made himself _think_ \-- well, now he sounds like Arty. He isn't sure than an apology is going to fix this, although he will try once he finds the right words. On the bright side, he thinks bleakly, after all this is sorted out we won't have to see each other ever again.

 

But in the meantime he has to get the house ready for a seance run by the man he's just wronged. He hopes that the stories about mediums sending angry ghosts to haunt their enemies are completely fictional. Or at the least, incredibly exaggerated.

 

...

 

Apollo hovers in the kitchen that evening, watching Dionysus arrange chairs, candles and the vital component, the ouija board. Dionysus looks up and sees him watching. 'Interesting viewing?'

 

'I've never been to one of these things before,' he says.

 

'Don't worry, I left the smoke and mirrors behind,' Dionysus says shortly, and goes back to his work.

 

Apollo can't think of an elegant way to apologise. 'I was a complete ass in the alley,' he blurts out. Might as well have it over and done with.

 

'Yes, you were,' Dionysus agrees coolly, not looking up. 'Were you expecting forgiveness?'

 

'No,' Apollo says, surprising himself. 'But I need to apologise all the same.'

 

Dionysus sighs and stops arranging his things. 'The problem is that I _want_ to forgive you,' he says, looking weary. 'You're thoughtless, but there's no active malice in it. You don't even know you're doing it half the time, do you?'

 

'No,' Apollo says awkwardly. 'I only realised what I'd done when I was thinking it over, and that was the voices of more sensible people in my head more than anything.'

 

'And this is usually the part where I forgive you, and imply that if you hurt someone they feel less pain if you don't mean to do it, or if you feel bad about it later the pain is less to start with,' Dionysus continues. His voice has a linger trace of bitterness, not directly entirely at Apollo. 'It's not just you,' he says. 'I should be used to it by now.'

 

Apollo is feeling increasingly out of his depth in very deep and turbulent waters. 'I'm sorry,' he says.

 

'I know what you're thinking,' Dionysus says suddenly. 'You're thinking that I completely betrayed your trust by not telling you who we were going to see. And I'm sorry that you didn't have any chance to prepare yourself, but there was no way around it. Tell me,' he says, 'What was I meant to do? If I'd told you the mayor of the city was my adopted father, would you have believed me? And if you _had_ believed me, would you ever have agreed to cross the river and talk with him?'

 

'No,' Apollo admits. 'When you put it that way, I can't fault you for it.' Something makes him add, 'But by the same token, I had a good reason for threatening you with a knife. I had no idea the mayor was part of the family. You scared the hell out of me.' He sighs. 'I panicked. Look, maybe it's different where you come from--'

 

'Where?' Dionysus snaps. 'Turkey?'

 

'No, the north bank!' Apollo snaps back. 'Maybe you do things differently over there, but south of the river, you learn very quickly that trust and faith don't count for much when it matters. We rule by fear and threats because they're what we can depend on.'

 

'Your _uncle_ rules by fear and threats,' Dionysus says quietly. 'And on the north bank it's the same, except we have words and legal papers, not knives.' He rubs his face, looking tired. 'Look, can we accept that I put you in a bad position and you reacted badly and move on?'

 

'If you want,' Apollo says. There's no apology, but at least they're talking again. There's a tap at the door. 'That'll be the girls,' he says, turning out into the hall.

 

'Wait a moment.' Dionysus stops him. 'Before Pal gets here, what do you think of the supernatural world? Seances, ghosts, and all the rest?'

 

'I've never thought much about it,' Apollo says honestly. 'Apart from ghost stories when I was a boy. But I'll try to keep an open mind, and Arty looks like she'll back you up.'

 

'Thanks,' Dionysus says drily, 'I think I'll need it.'

 

...

 

'I want you to know before you begin that I'm only here because Arty said you needed four people,' Athena says sternly as they sit down. 'I have no illusions about speaking with the dead. I'm an _atheist_ , for heaven's sake.'

 

'Duly noted,' Dionysus says, lighting the last candle. 'I'm not expecting you to start looking for fairies in the garden after this, Pal. Just keep an open mind.'

 

'And have a bit of trust,' Apollo adds. Athena sniffs, but Dionysus lets that go without comment. Arty, on the other hand, looks excited about the whole thing. Under Dionysus' instruction the curtains are drawn and the lamps are out, leaving only the candles for light. The ouija board sits in the middle of the table.

 

'You each need to put one of your fingers on it,' Dionysus tells them. 'Lightly, so it can move if any spirits want it to.'

 

'What about you?' Arty says.

 

'I'll try and contact them first,' Dionysus says. 'Some like to use the board, but others want to talk with you directly, as it were.'

 

'And how do they do that?' Athena says, looking concerned. 'Di, I'm not sure that this is safe--'

 

'I've done this dozens of times,' Dionysus tells her irritably. 'I'll be fine. Now let me try and call the latest one.'

 

Silence falls. Apollo wonders if shutting his eyes will help. He opens one eye and sees Dionysus has his eyes closed, looking as though he's concentrating hard. 'What was her name?' he whispers to Athena.

 

'Vera Green,' Athena mutters back.

 

'Vera Green,' Dionysus says in a clear voice. His accent has fallen away and he speaks the words slowly, formally, as though he's memorised his part. 'Vera Green, if you are with us, please give us a sign.'

 

The silence stretches out. Apollo wonders if ghosts really do communicate by rattling things and sending cold winds. Athena is looking at her hands, shaking her head slightly and clearly unconvinced of anything. Arty has her eyes closed, head tilted slightly with a questioning smile on her face. He can't feel anything, but then he's not sure what he's meant to feel.

 

Dionysus says the names of the other four victims, with the same formal words. He waits a decent amount of time between each one, but the silence is deafening. How strong can a ghost be? Apollo wonders. Can they really reach across reality and move a piece of wood? What if they don't speak the same language as the medium? What if the ghost of a completed different woman who is also named Vera Green appears? Would they know? How could you _tell_ \--

 

Dionysus gasps suddenly. Arty's eyes open and Athena puts her hand out towards him before they shake their heads. She looks rebellious. Apollo isn't sure what to do now. Is this part of the seance? Is Dionysus really in danger? What if he has some sort of condition that he hasn't told them about and it makes him seriously ill here? Athena said seances were dangerous. Can ghosts do people physical harm? He's only heard of them haunting people and driving them mad, but he's not so sure now. He and Arty exchange worried looks. Dionysus is breathing hard but his eyes are still closed. His fingers twitch slightly on the table. He recoils in his seat and Athena gives a little squeak of fright, but he doesn't open his eyes. He's in some sort of trance, then. Can you become mentally ill through seances? Apollo wonders. How long can a person stay in a trance before their health is in danger? He wishes now he knew something about the supernatural world, but he doesn't. He only knows ghost stories, and Arty must know about the same, and Athena has no truck with anything of that sort. The only person who knows how a seance is meant to work is the one currently shivering and twitching with his eyes still closed, and none of them are sure if this is normal or not.

 

The minutes pass. Dionysus finally slumps back in his seat and opens his eyes. He blinks a few times, looking sleepy, as though he's forgotten where they are. 'Urgh,' he says eloquently.

 

'Are you all right?' Athena says, looking at him in horror.

 

'Thirsty,' Dionysus says thickly. Arty slips into the kitchen and fetches him a glass of water. He drinks it greedily, spilling it in the process, but he looks much better for it. 'I haven't done that for a while,' he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

 

'Did you...' Apollo lets the question peter out.

 

'I think I got to all of them,' Dionysus says, running a hair through his hair. His shirt is stuck to his skin with sweat. 'It takes a lot out of you. I've never tried to reach five in one session before.' He does in fact look exhausted.

 

'No names,' he says before they can ask any more questions. 'And none of them saw his face either. They're very frightened. If they _are_ haunting him, they're not happy about being there.'

 

'And?' Athena presses.

 

'And that's it, really,' Dionysus says. Athena looks crushed. 'I'm sorry, Pal, it's not an exact science.'

 

'At least we tried,' Arty says consolingly.

 

'And now what?' Athena says miserably. She must be more desperate than she's letting on if she really pinned her hopes on talking to the dead. Apollo pats her hand.

 

'I suppose we keep our eyes out,' he says. 'Something else will come up, I'm sure.'

 

'We'll keep an eye on it, Pal, don't worry,' Dionysus says. He frowns at the ouija board. Apollo follows his gaze and finds that the little wooden marker has moved to point to the letter _T_. 'Did you do that?' Dionysus says.

 

'I'm... not sure,' Apollo says. Arty and Athena look at each other, equally puzzled. He certainly didn't notice it moving, but maybe one of them knocked it over when the seance finished.

 

They sit at the table disconsolately. 'Well, never mind,' Arty finally says, getting up to turn the lights on. The electric light pulls him back into the normal waking world. Maybe Dionysus was having some sort of fit. Maybe he only imagined hearing the ghosts.

 

'It's _horrible_ in here,' Arty says, fanning herself. Apollo thought Dionysus was sweating because of his hard work, but the room is hot and close. Arty goes to the windows and opens the curtains. It's still light outside, Apollo realises. This whole business can't have taken more than an hour. Arty opens one of the windows and staggers back with a cry of disgust.

 

'What is it?' he says, jumping to his feet and hurrying over. He can hear Dionysus and Athena behind him.

 

'Nothing, it's nothing,' Arty says, waving them off. 'I got a blast of wind just as I opened the window. Felt like opening an oven door.'

 

'Good grief, look at the sky!' Athena says, pointing past them.

 

Apollo looks out and sees clouds the colour of the sea advancing on the city, rolling across the sky like water along a parched riverbed. They must be a few miles off, but even there he sees a bright branch of lightning for a moment, and then the accompanying rumble a few moments later. They cluster at the window, watching it in awe.

 

'It's just a storm,' Arty says, sounding like she's trying to convince herself. 'Just a summer storm, we have them every year.'

 

'Not like that,' Athena says, shaking her head in wonder. 'I haven't seen clouds like that for years. Remember that big one five years ago? It almost toppled Father's house!'

 

'That's a monstrous-looking storm,' Dionysus agrees. Another gust of wind blows in from the street and this time they all wince and turn away. It smells like rain and hot garbage, but it's the heat of it that makes Apollo clench his eyes shut. It feels like standing in front of a furnace.

 

'Hot breath,' Dionysus says suddenly. 'I lost it when I came out, but they said they felt the hot breath-- they all said they felt his hot breath behind them, that it was the last thing they felt. Burning hot, like standing next to a volcano--' His eyes go wide. 'Hot breath, and a storm coming,' he says.

 

'What is it?' Apollo says.

 

Dionysus turns to Athena instead. 'Where would Zeus be right now?' he demands.

 

'At home, or at his club,' Athena says. 'The club's more likely.'

 

'Where is it?' Dionysus presses her.

 

'Near the docks,' she says. 'But they won't let you in, you need to be a member--'

 

'We have to go and find him right now,' Dionysus says urgently, pulling her away from the window. 'Before the storm reaches him.'

 

'What?' Arty says, looking between them in confusion. 'I don't understand, how can you know?'

 

'Because they all said they felt the hot wind,' Dionysus says. He looks half wild with his hair sticking up. 'They all said they felt the hot wind before they died, and that storm hasn't just blown up because of the right winds. And Hades told me something that I finally understand. We have to find him _right now_. I know this sounds bizarre. I'll explain it later. We don't have time. Trust me, Pal, please. Zeus will die in that storm if we don't find him. _Trust me,_ ' he says, catching Apollo's eye.

 

'All right,' Arty says, and Apollo nods.

 

'How do we stop it?' Athena says.

 

'We'll figure that out later. We have to find him first,' Dionysus says, towing her towards the door. Apollo dimly hears Arty lock the door behind them as they clatter down the stairs, Dionysus pulling Athena along with him.

 

'Hurry!' he shouts at them over his shoulder, running up the street.

 

'Time to go hunting,' Arty says with a grim smile. Apollo takes her hand and they race away after Dionysus and Athena. Arty runs fast, pulling him in her wake, and they soon catch up, weaving through the evening crowd.

 

It's hot as an oven on the street from the sunbaked cobblestones, but Apollo feels a breeze push at the back of his head as he runs. It's cooler than the last breath of wind, and smells of rain. He looks over his shoulder and sees the great purple-grey clouds blot out the afternoon sun, casting a sudden shadow over the street that makes him shiver. The storm is on its way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: in Greek mythology Dionysus has the power to speak to the dead, being a chthonic deity. And I couldn’t resist writing a séance.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: graphic violence, one mention of rape]

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: graphic violence, one mention of rape]

 

They run in a strung-out line along the streets, swerving around people and cars. Dionysus still is still pulling Athena along with him, but she pulls on his arm and he abruptly turns down another street. There's less traffic and fewer people, but he's still racing along.

 

'Bollocks to this,' Arty says, breathing hard. She catches up to Dionysus and catches his other arm, shouting something as they run. Apollo doesn't know where she finds the breath. He follows them a few yards behind and almost bowls them over as they slow to a walk.

 

'We don't have time!' Dionysus is saying shortly, without breaking stride. Athena slips away from him and falls into step beside Apollo. She's still panting and her hair has come undone.

 

'How are you holding up?' Apollo says, offering his arm.

 

'I haven't run that much since school,' Athena says, leaning on it gratefully. 'Lucky Di was pulling me forward.' Arty and Dionysus are walking ahead, arguing about something and gesturing. They stop at a corner and wait for them to catch up.

 

'We're going to split up,' Arty says. Dionysus nods. 'Pal and I will go and find Uncle. You two make sure the streets are clear.'

 

'Are you going to be all right?' Apollo says. Arty can punch a man out cold, but if the killer is here somewhere and she tries to do something heroic...

 

'We'll be fine,' Athena says, finally getting her breath back. 'It doesn't matter if you go tearing across the city, Father's club won't let you two in. Especially the way you look now. He'll listen to me, I'm sure.'

 

'Let's go,' Arty says, pulling her away.

 

'We should tell someone,' Apollo protests. 'If we get the word out to Hera or Herakles--'

 

'They'll lock down the whole south bank,' Dionysus says, shaking his head. 'The killer's going to be spooked, and they'll slip away.'

 

'And they'll think we cried wolf,' Athena says. 'They won't believe us if we try to warn them again.'

 

'Uncle's the bait,' Arty says. 'The killer won't get at him if he's in the club, but if he's on his way home they might strike. You two need to catch him.'

 

'And what if he hurts you? You've only got your razor--'

 

'No time, Polly,' she says, and races away with Athena up the street. He sees them cross and go down another street, and they're gone.

 

'Come on,' Dionysus says. 'We need to be there before Uncle comes out.' It sounds strange to hear him call Zeus that, a reminder that he is family after all. This is a family problem, Apollo thinks, and they're going to deal with it. That makes him feel better somehow.

 

'I know a shortcut,' he says, and they begin to run again.

 

...

 

Half an hour later they're leaning against a wall, just inside an alley across from Uncle's club. There's no sign of the girls yet. Apollo feels half dead from running in the heat. Dionysus must be even worse after the seance, but he's still peering out into the street. 'How long would it take them to get over here?' he says anxiously.

 

'It can't be that long,' Apollo says. 'Arty runs like the wind. She'll pull Athena along with her.' He pushes himself off the wall and looks over Dionysus' shoulder. The street is quiet and evening is falling, but it's still sickeningly hot and there's no wind in the shelter of the alley. It feels like a great invisible fist is coming down on them. The sun is only getting through the storm clouds in short bursts, and the light is going red. The storm is one thing, but if they have to try to catch a killer by night...

 

'There they are,' Dionysus says, relieved. Arty and Athena appear walking down the street arm in arm. Apollo raises his hand and Arty glances in their direction. She sees them in the alley and nods. They reach the club and go up the steps. Athena rings the doorbell and it's answered after a few moments by an old butler. There's an argument going on between them, but the sound doesn't carry across to the alley. Athena is gesturing impatiently but the man stands his ground. Eventually Arty shoves the door further open with her knee, making apologetic sounds as the man stumbles back into the building, and they slip inside in the confusion. Apollo waits for them to be unceremoniously evicted, Uncle's club not being known for its hospitality towards women of any sort, but it doesn't come.

 

'They must have got through to him,' he says with relief.

 

'Or they're being held up in the lobby,' Dionysus says drily.

 

They wait ten minutes and nothing happens. There's no sound from the club and the door doesn't open again. A few people pass by the alley but no-one gives them more than a glance.

 

Dionysus looks up at the sky. The first clouds are passing over their heads. 'It shouldn't take this long,' he says uneasily.

 

'Uncle does things in his own time,' Apollo says, trying to reassure him. 'They might keep the girls waiting. Even if he does come out to talk to Athena, it'll take her a while to convince him.'

 

They wait, the air pressing down on them. A gust of wind picks up, but it's not as hot as the first blasts. It smells like rain. There's no movement at the door, no sounds of alarm. Night is beginning to fall over the city. Dionysus checks his watch and shakes his head angrily, looking up at the sky and back to the door of the club. Apollo looks up too and sees the storm clouds stretching across almost the whole sky. The sun comes out again, but its lower edge is almost touching the horizon. The light is fading.

 

The wind picks up again, although the atmosphere is still oppressive, and still nothing happens. Dionysus has his eyes fixed on the door, muttering under his breath. Apollo finds his knife and slips it into his pocket. The street is deserted now as even the southbankers hurry to find shelter.

 

'That's half an hour,' Dionysus says abruptly. 'It shouldn't take that long. What the hell are they doing?'

 

'Uncle does things in his own way,' Apollo says. 'Oh, _damn,_ ' he swears suddenly.

 

 _'What?'_ Dionysus says, turning on him.

 

'Why are we watching the front door?' Apollo says. 'If Athena does convince him he's in danger, he'll want to go out the back.'

 

'Bloody hell,' Dionysus curses, but Apollo is already out of the alley and across the street. There's no way down the sides of the building, but he sees another street further down.

 

'This way!' he yells, and turns down it. He can hear Dionysus' footsteps behind him. A smaller street opens to their left, back towards the club, and he turns up it. Then there's an alley that looks like it might lead to the club, but there are two more on that side of the street, and three more on the other. The buildings are shut, looking rundown.

 

'So he does know what he's doing,' Dionysus says, looking up and down the street. 'Damn, bloody damn. They might have got out already.'

 

If Uncle is already out of the club, he could be in any street now. 'We can't think like that,' Apollo says. 'Uncle takes his own time, he can't be hurried.' At least that's what he's clinging to now.

 

'I hope you're right,' Dionysus says fervently. They look at the alleys, now falling into shadows, branching and curving into a maze. It's a better defence for a back door than any number of high walls. 'We need to split up and find the entrance,' Dionysus says. 'You take that alley, I'll take this one,' He points them out.

 

'Right,' Apollo says. 'What's the signal if we find them?'

 

'No signal,' Dionysus says decidedly. 'That's only going to bring the killer down on us. If you find them before I do, get Zeus home and I'll find my own way out.'

 

'And you too,' Apollo says. 'If we do find the killer...'

 

Dionysus flicks a knife from his sleeve. They look at each other, nod, and separate. It only occurs to Apollo as he runs down the alley that they didn't agree what to do if the killer finds one of _them._ He supposes screaming is traditional.

 

There's a rumble of thunder overhead as he comes to a junction, picks at random, and races on. The first drops of rain begin to fall.

 

...

 

It's later. Apollo's not sure how much time has passed; between the sun setting and the clouds covering the sky the whole world exists in a dim world of faint shadows. Every now and then a few fat drops of rain fall, but there hasn't been any downpour yet. He hopes that means they still have time. He's only seen Dionysus once, crossing another alley, and there are no other people. It seems far too quiet. There must be traffic on the main street, but he can't hear anything except his own breath and the plop of raindrops. He's half-soaked, and resigned to it. There's no shelter in the maze of alleys, just twisting passages of old stone and rundown buildings. He feels tired from running up and down the cobblestones, and he's accepted now that he's well and truly lost. The walls are too high to see the sun and the clouds are going to cover the stars; he has no way to find his bearings.

 

He leans against a wall for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. It's hard, between the almost identical streets, the poor light and the warmth as the stones release the day's heat. His heart races at every rumble of thunder and fresh drops of rain as the sign that they've failed. He ought to have reached the other side of the maze of alleys by now - if not the back of Uncle's club, then the street they entered from - but there seems to be no end. Of course it would be terribly easy to go around and around these streets for hours, but if Dionysus is equally lost they should have crossed paths by now.

 

Water dribbles down the wall and onto his head. He licks up the drops that fall onto his face and pushes himself away from the wall. It's important to keep moving.

 

He walks up the alley, trying to remember how you're meant to get out of mazes. Do you turn left at every branch, or do you keep your right hand on the wall at all times? He decides that if turning left doesn't work, he can try the other method. He takes the left turn at the next alley and walks up it. There's no point running if he has to keep skidding around corners.

 

There's another rumble of thunder that sounds right above his head. He cringes at the sound and straightens up sharply, looking around sheepishly. Of course there's nobody there to see him, but he still feels foolish. Dionysus has set him on edge with by insisting they have to find Uncle before the storm starts; of course a _storm_ can't kill anyone. Except for lightning strikes, he realises, remembering Dionysus' mother in Turkey. Maybe fear is making the man panic.

 

But Uncle loves storms, and lightning is hardly going to strike him if there's a handy building nearby. Athena would have her work cut out dragging him inside with a storm like this, he'd want to stand out in the street and watch it--

 

Oh, _hell_. If the killer knows Uncle as well as he seems to know his brothers and sisters... he _really_ wishes now that he and Dionysus had worked out a signal if they needed to find each other. Cursing under his breath, he turns around and begins to run back the way he came. His legs protest and they'll have their revenge later, but he pounds down the twisting alleys, trying to see Dionysus in the ones he passes. He turns down them almost at random, hoping for good luck rather than any sort of logic, and he barely believes it when he stumbles out into the street that they came in, from the very same alley he entered.

 

The street is damp with the sudden short showers of rain, but quiet. He tenses as a group of people cross at the far end and move away, their laughter carrying towards him. He looks up and down the street but there's no murderer, no bodies and no screaming. He slumps in defeat, breathing hard. Back into the alleys again, then. Another great crack of thunder sounds, and a gust of wind blows past him.

 

It feels hot enough to singe the hairs on the back of his neck.

 

Apollo stiffens and forces himself not to spin around. His back feels very vulnerable as he makes himself peer down the street again. The blistering wind blows again and this time there's a distinct footstep, sounding heavy enough to break a hole in the ground. There are no shadows to tell him how close his attacker is. Would screaming help now, or would it only drive the killer away?

 

He gathers himself together, thinks a very quick prayer and turns around, slipping the knife out of his pocket as he does. He retreats from his would-be attacker and his back meets the wall of the alley.

 

The man is tall, a giant in a coat and hat that turn him into a walking statue. He must be seven feet tall at least. His face is shadowed beneath his hat and his coat collar is turned up, but Apollo sees the gleam of an eye. The thing looks at him with slow consideration. It opens its mouth and he half expects a forked tongue to poke out. This is ridiculous, his mind insists, it's a tall man, nothing more. _Monster,_ says his heart, and he believes it.

 

'Little god,' says the killer. His voice sounds like a snake trying to swallow gravel, and there's a hiss at the end of every word. 'Run home, little god, and we will find a place for you when this is done.'

 

Apollo gulps, and edges away from the wall. The killer steps with him, so that he's blocking the way out. Or perhaps Apollo is blocking his way into the maze, where he prays Dionysus has found Uncle and the girls and has got them out some other way. His knife feels like a toy in his hand. The man could break him in half, and are those _claws_ at the ends of his hands?

 

'Who are you?' he says, trying to sound haughty. 'What do you want?'

 

'My mother named me Typhon,' the killer says in his rasping voice. 'And you know why I am here.'

 

'I won't let you kill any more people,' Apollo says. He's realising rather too late why Arty uses _heroic_ as a synonym for _idiotic_. If he can lose this man in the alleys-- but that means he'll be free. Unwatched. And Dionysus and the girls will have no idea...

He stiffens suddenly. The creature seems to take it for terror and he prays it doesn't turn around. Dionysus has just come into view behind it on the far side of the street, apparently alone. He looks up and stops dead as he sees the tall figure, and Apollo behind it.

 

They stand there in a ridiculous tableau for a few moments, Apollo trying to look as determined as possible, praying Typhon doesn't turn around and see Dionysus on the other side. Dionysus seems frozen to the spot. Then he shakes his head rapidly and meets Apollo's eyes again. He holds his index fingers up in front of him, pointing up: _wait,_ they say. _Stall him._ Then Dionysus tiptoes away down the street and runs for it. Typhon doesn't turn around, and Apollo doesn't dare turn his head to see where he's going.

 

 _Wait. Stall him._ Presumably Dionysus will come back with help, but when? How many? Where are Uncle and the girls? Apollo realises with despair that not only does he not know if he understood Dionysus correctly, but Dionysus has no idea if he understood _him_ either. The thunder cracks again right overhead, and he shivers.

 

Typhon misinterprets it. 'Leave me to finish my work,' he says in his grating voice. He almost sounds kind. 'You are not part of this.'

 

'No,' Apollo says, shaking his head vehemently. If he's going to die, he wants to know what this whole business was for. 'You're trying to kill my uncle. You've killed people and made them look like my aunts and uncles when they were young. _Why?_ '

 

'You are only a child,' Typhon says. He's flexing his fingers at his sides. Apollo doesn't want to think about that. 'You were not even born when this began. We will do you no harm, if you leave.'

 

'When _what_ began?' Apollo demands. Frustration is making him bold. 'Who _are_ you people?'

 

Typhon reaches into his jacket and Apollo tenses, sure that he's going to meet his end by a bullet. But the man pulls out a few pieces of large card instead, and holds one up for him to see.

 

He recognises the photograph with a jolt. The siblings, in their costumes. So he _did_ know. 'Where did you get that?' he says. Typhon doesn't answer, but holds up another photograph. This one has Uncle and all his brothers and sisters, but they're surrounded by other people. _The family,_ the caption reads.

 

'They drove us out,' Typhon hisses as Apollo stares at the picture. 'He coveted our power, and the other five helped him. They killed my brothers and my sisters when they stood, and took the city with the blood caked on their hands.'

 

'No,' Apollo says faintly, but Typhon goes on.

 

'They hunted us through the streets one by one, and we ran. They carried me away to a safe place, and we hid and nursed our wounds. And we _planned_. We planned our revenge and our return. And when I was grown,' he says, 'They sent me here to prepare the way.'

 

'By murdering people,' Apollo says. 'You killed innocent people for this.'

 

'Wanted to warn them,' Typhon says in his rough voice. 'Told me it would frighten them off... they didn't deserve it. To have a chance to flee. They never warned us. They didn't notice.' He flicks his fingers again, the nails looking as sharp as knives. 'They'll notice this.'

 

'You're not meant to kill him, are you?' Apollo says. 'You're meant to find another man who looks like him, and lay him out like all the others.'

 

'I've changed the plan,' Typhon says. He sounds pleased. 'He falls, and we return. And in the chaos, no-one asks where the others go.' He lets out a great rasping laugh.

 

'You're going to hunt them down just like they came after you,' Apollo says, aghast. 'And everyone in the business.'

 

Typhon laughs again. 'The little god sees clearly,' he says in amusement.

 

Apollo is beyond fear. 'You're no better than them,' he says. Typhon abruptly stops laughing. 'You said I wasn't part of this. Neither are half the family, the younger ones. Are you going to kill them too?'

 

'We show them the same mercy they showed us,' Typhon says.

 

'You're a monster,' Apollo says flatly. 'You couldn't hold the city before, and you'll never take it again. My uncle rules this place well. It's stable, peaceful. You don't even care about the ordinary people.'

 

Typhon snarls. Apollo steps back hurriedly, but the man doesn't chase him. ' _Care?_ We care for them more than the six ever did. How can you say you care when they do not even notice my work? How can you call a man caring when he rapes whatever woman he wants, and his wife comes after, stealing the babies back and killing the mothers? How is that _caring?_ '

 

'That's not true!' Apollo shouts. 'We noticed! We found you!'

 

'You notice, and do nothing,' Typhon says dismissively. 'We cared. My brother loved the people more than his family, and the six never forgave him for that. They chained him to a wall, to be pecked by birds. He was half dead when we found him. Their own uncle. If they treat their family like this, how can you say they are kind, they are caring?'

 

Apollo doesn't know how to answer that, because Uncle's rule has been peaceful, not kind. _Your uncle rules by fear,_ Dionysus said. But peace is worth anything, surely...

 

Typhon doesn't give him a chance to answer anyway. 'He holds power over the whole city. That power was ours, and he took it from us. And yet you call us evil already, for wanting it back. How can power make him good, and us evil?'

 

Thunder rolls again. More rain falls, and the wind begins to howl. 'How can you say what we might or might not do, if we had power over this city?' Typhon shouts over it. 'Can you even think that we might rule as well as you? Can you even imagine that we could do better?'

 

' _Better?_ ' Apollo shouts back. 'Better doesn't start with killing everyone who wronged you!'

 

Typhon steps forward. Apollo stands his ground this time. 'Leave,' he says.

 

'No,' Apollo says firmly, shaking the rain off his face.

 

'I do what must be done. It will be over in a moment, and the rest will flee. If they stayed, we would fight for years. The city would tear itself apart. Isn't it better, this way?' Typhon steps forward again. 'Go home,' he says, almost gently. 'This is not your fight. I do not want to hurt you. We will let you stay, if you do not try to stop us.'

 

'No,' Apollo says calmly. He wraps his fingers around his knife firmly, not that it will do much good. 'You've told me the plan. You can't let me go now.'

 

Typhon grins savagely. 'Oh, _clever_ little god,' he says, and lunges forward.

 

Apollo twists away from the hand and brings the knife up, aiming for the stomach. Typhon's arm cuts him off and forces his hand up. He loses his grip on the knife and it clatters away. He dodges around Typhon and makes for the street. If he can lead him away-- a hand with fingernails like claws lands on his shoulder. He squirms away again and feels his jacket tear. He pulls out of it, stumbling away and half-falling. The rain is coming down in earnest now, and he almost slips on the wet road.

 

Typhon advances. He doesn't have a weapon in either hand, but then, he hardly needs one. Right. No knife, no gun, and apparently no backup. Apollo roars and comes at Typhon with both fists swinging.

 

Typhon catches his fist in one huge hand and twists, forcing his arm around. He reaches for his throat with the other arm, and Apollo lashes out desperately. It lands on the forearm, not much of a blow, but Typhon hisses and pulls back. Apollo doesn't question his luck and kicks at his shins. Typhon makes a noise halfway between a hiss and a howl, and his grip loosens. Apollo struggles free. He manages to knock the hat off and Typhon puts his hands up over his head, but not before Apollo sees the burn scars. Typhon tears off his coat and pulls it over his head, hissing in pain.

 

Apollo lands another punch on his shoulder and Typhon lashes out with his hand. He dodges that, circles around the man and lands a blow on his back. Typhon is ungainly with the coat covering his head, and he tries to reach Apollo over his shoulder. His fingernails tear the back of his coat to shreds. Between the bits of fabric Apollo can see wounds, angry and festering. One starts to bleed freshly, the blood thick and dark.

 

He takes hold of the coat and pulls. Typhon howls again as it comes away, trying to cover his head, back and arms from the rain. Apollo kicks the coat away. He turns back to Typhon, now crouching with his hands over his head. 'Get out,' he says. 'If you leave now you might just get away.'

 

Another _heroic_ thing, Arty would say disdainfully. Only a hero is stupid enough to give his enemy a chance to run. Let your guard down for one moment, and--

 

Typhon's arm catches Apollo in the stomach, and he flies at least a yard before he meets the ground again. He gasps as the air is forced out of his lungs. Typhon has found the coat and pulls it on again laboriously. Apollo tries to scramble away. His legs slip on the wet road, and there's nothing within reach for a weapon. Typhon advances on him. He moves less painfully with the coat back on but the hat has rolled away somewhere. He hisses as the rain pounds down on his head, eyes narrowed and teeth bared. A knife has appeared in his hand _(an ordinary sort of knife, the sort you’d find in any kitchen)_.

 

'I killed the others quickly,' he says, wincing with every step. 'They did nothing to me. You, little god, will die _slowly_.' And Apollo screams as Typhon puts the knife to his shoulder and slides it in, twisting as he goes, tracing a line all the way down his arm.

 

He almost faints, but Typhon knows his trade and stops in time. Typhon is crouching beside him, saying something, but he can't concentrate with the pain trying to pull him under.

 

'Look around you, little god,' Typhon says, gesturing at the street. 'You die, and no-one cares. How does it feel? Where is your father now? Where is your family? Where are your _people?_ ' The rain turns the blood pink, and a little pool of it collects in Apollo’s palm. The rain is making him blind and there's a dull roaring sound in his ears. He can barely think--

 

There's a shout in the distance. Apollo musters his strength and lifts his head. There's a person standing at the end of the street where it turns into another road. No, two people. He must be delirious, seeing double. He blinks and looks again, and now there are four.

 

Typhon follows his glance and sees the four people, no, there must be six or seven. He stands abruptly. There are more people, a little group. Apollo has lost count. Typhon stares at them, and Apollo tries to move away. His arm screams and he nearly bites through his lip trying to be silent. He manages to push himself up and puts his wounded arm in his lap, holding it in place.

 

At least ten people are there now, gathered at the end of the street. More arrive even as he watches. One starts to move forward and the rest follow him, walking in pairs or little groups. Typhon hisses, flexing his fingers again. The people advance. Apollo can't tell, but there seem to be more behind them. Typhon looks up and down the street and hisses again. Now there are more people behind the first group, Apollo is sure of it. They follow the others down the street, coming towards them. There are enough to block the street entirely, and still they advance. What do they want? he wonders. The first few are less than a hundred yards away, and coming closer, they must be able to see...

 

They _do_ see; he can see them pointing at him on the ground. There's an angry shout, and others follow it. Typhon draws himself up to his full height and hisses again, baring his teeth, but they still come forward. There's a solid line of people now, so many that he can't see the gaps between them, and there are more people behind.

 

Typhon hisses again and moves back a step. Someone in the group of people - a crowd now, really - shouts again, and the others take it up. They look from Apollo to Typhon and begin to move forward, marching in a line that stretches across the whole street. Apollo can't understand the words, but Typhon hisses and it sounds more like fear than anger this time. He takes another step back, and the crowd of people walks faster. Some break the line and move ahead, but others take their places. Typhon backs away, and the crowd begins to creep up along the sides, cutting off the alleys. Typhon keeps backing away, looking over his shoulder, and finally turns around and starts walking. The first people reach Apollo and pass him by, intent on Typhon instead.

 

Apollo looks over his shoulder, grimacing, and sees Typhon break into a run. The crowd roars, and the people begin to run after him.

 

He sits in a daze as they sweep past, howling with anger. Their faces are twisted with fury, but somehow nobody tramples him. He looks up and sees men in business suits and in rough working clothes, women in fine clothes and in rags. Old, young, men, women, all classes, all origins; the only thing that unites them is the fury of the crowd. They howl around him like a storm of humans as the rain hammers down and the thunder rumbles on. All people, all city people. _My people,_ he thinks, then, _no, I belong to them._

 

He doesn't know what will happen to Typhon if the crowd catches him. His arm has stopped hurting so much but there are pins and needles all through it, and he feels cold. He's soaked to the skin with rain and blood, and yet the crowd rushes on. The current of people begins to thin out. The last pass him by, still rushing onwards, and finally there's no-one left. He looks over his shoulder again and sees them moving away. He tries to call after them but he can barely muster a squeak.

 

There's another shout at the end of the street. Another straggler, he thinks, but then someone else screams. It's much closer and he winces at the sound. The figure at the end of the street begins to run towards him, but the screaming person finds him first.

 

'Polly!' it howls, stumbling to kneel next to him. It clamps on to him and he cries out as it knocks his arm. The pain wakes him up again, and the screaming creature resolves into Arty. 'Polly!' she says, stroking his face. She sees his arm and her face goes white. 'Polly, please,' she says, her voice breaking, 'Please, _please..._ '

 

'Oh god,' a voice says. The figure running up the street becomes Dionysus, who drops down on his other side. 'Let me see,' the man says, trying to look at his arm. His eyes widen at the blood, and he takes his jacket off and puts it around Apollo's shoulders.

 

It's not much use, he wants to say, I'm wet already. He hears a voice that sounds like Athena ask him something, and her fingers check his pulse. 'Keep the pressure on it,' she says, always practical. He moans as some sort of cloth is pressed on to his arm.

 

'Bloody hell, what's this?' another voice says. It takes Apollo a while to recognise it, but when he finally matches the voice to a face he almost laughs. Uncle is here, finally, after all the fuss. He laughs, and the dim world grows even dimmer. He can still hear Arty pleading, feel her hands on his face, but she seems very far away. Dionysus is shaking him, telling him that he has to stay awake, but that's not fair. He's not a night person at all, and he'll tell them that later.

 

He closes his eyes, because that seems more peaceful. The last thing he sees stays on the back of his eyelids: above his sister's tearful face, above the buildings and Uncle staring at him, is the sky. The rain has stopped and the storm is moving on, leaving behind a night thick with stars.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [TRIGGER WARNINGS: non-graphic discussion of wounds]

[TRIGGER WARNINGS: non-graphic discussion of wounds]

 

Apollo wakes up in a strange house.

 

Everything is calm. He spends quite a long time watching the white ceiling, where a tree outside casts dappled shadows. Sunlight makes strange reflections from a basin full of water, and the sunbeams crawl lazily across his bed. He watches them with mild interest until they touch his face and get into his eyes. When he turns away from the brightness he finds Arty sleeping in a chair next to his bed. She yawns and stretches, blinking, and looks at him sleepily.

 

It takes a few moments before she realises that he's awake. When she understands, her face breaks into the most beautiful smile he's ever seen. She gets up from the chair, sits gently on the bed, and holds him as close as she can without touching his arm. He's quite astounded by her silence, and strokes her hair.

 

'How long?' he croaks. His throat feels like a desert.

 

'Two days,' she says.

 

'I'm starving,' he says, and she laughs against his shoulder.

 

'We'll get you some food,' she says, pulling away gently. She gets up and he only notices the guard then, standing silently next to the door. He only nods at Arty as she slips out the door. Apollo recognises him vaguely as one of Uncle's men.

 

Arty comes back and sits in her chair. She takes his hand and squeezes it, as though he'll go back to sleep at any moment. 'Where are we?' he asks quietly.

 

'I'm not quite sure,' she says. 'They brought me here in a car with the windows covered.' Some sort of safe house, he gathers. Hospitals ask too many questions about their patients.

 

There's a knock at the door, and the guard opens it cautiously. He nods at the woman who enters with a tray. A nurse of some sort, he assumes. There's a sigil stitched on her blouse, a snake wrapped around a staff, but he doesn't recognise the order. Apollo's world shrinks to the bowl of soup on the tray. Arty helps him sit up, and he hears her talking to the woman in the background as he practically inhales the soup. He puts the empty bowl back on the tray and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

 

'So you're appetite's back,' the woman says approvingly. 'That's always a good sign. Give me your arm and let me look at your stitches.'

 

He stretches out his left arm, wincing at the stiffness in the muscles. His arm is covered in bandages from wrist to shoulder, and by the time the woman - a nurse of some sort, he presumes - has finished unrolling them he has remembered quite a lot of what happened. He shivers a little. Typhon, the storm, the furious crowd; they all seem very far in the past, like a dream, but the proof of the whole thing is the long line of stitches.

 

The nurse examines them, poking at some and sending little twitches of pain up his arm. 'You can feel that?' she says as he grimaces. 'That's good, believe it or not. For a while we thought you might lose the use of the muscles.' She peers at the cut. 'And no infection either.'

 

'I've always healed quickly,' he says.

 

'And you still are,' the woman agrees. 'The wound's already closing in places. We should be able to get the stitches out in a day or two. You're a very lucky young man.'

 

'I can see that,' he says, looking at the arm. He couldn't see how long it was in the dark and the rain, but seeing the red wound running all the way up to his shoulder in the stark light of day makes it more serious. He wonders how close he was to dying. He decides he'd rather not know.

 

The woman collects the bowl and leaves, holding the door open for Arty, who brings him another bowl of soup. 'The nurse says it's healing up well,' he tells her between mouthfuls.

 

'That's good,' Arty says, handing him a napkin. 'You're going to have to make up a story for how you got it, you know.'

 

'Some sort of industrial accident,' he says, 'Or I could just wear long sleeves for the rest of my life.'

 

'Industrial accident it is,' Arty says drily. 'I'll tell Pal to spread the word if anyone asks her.'

 

That reminds him. 'How are...' he rethinks his words as Arty tenses. The guard stares straight ahead, but he still goes on carefully. 'How is everyone else?'

 

'Uncle's fine,' Arty says quietly. 'Pal and I had to go and explain the whole thing to him, of course, but I think it's going to be all right. And Pal's expecting a report from you as soon as you can write.' He rolls his eyes at that, and she snorts. 'Everyone is fine,' she says carefully, and he doesn't press her. Dionysus is apparently persona non grata, unfair though it may be. He's family, but then so were the people Uncle and his siblings drove out. He wonders what ever happened to them.

 

...

 

Three days later Apollo leaves the quiet house, his arm freshly bandaged and Arty with strict orders as to how to care for him. They climb into a car with blacked-out windows and it drives them away from the house, wherever it is, and takes them back to Delos Street. He looks up at the sky, but it's flawlessly blue.

 

Inside he half-expects to find the seance equipment still set up, but the kitchen is tidy and the only sign they've been away is another loaf of bread turning blue with mould. He climbs up to his attic and sees his bed exactly as he left it, sheets and blankets rumpled. His poems are on his desk, still incomplete, and the paper is turning yellow from the sunlight. He can barely remember the words now, and puts them away in the desk drawer.

 

Athena drops by later that day, gamely struggling under the weight of a large earthenware pot. 'Hera sent this over,' she explains breathlessly, putting it down gratefully on the bench.

 

'Good god,' Apollo says, picking up the lid with his good hand, 'There must be a whole cow in there.'

 

'She also said she has more, for when you finish it,' Athena says. 'You need plenty of meat to make the muscle knit together. How are you feeling, anyway?'

 

'Better than the last time you saw me,' he says.

 

'I don't think you could have felt any worse,' Athena says grimly. 'We didn't realise how much blood you lost because the rain washed it away, but it must have been a good few ounces.' She shakes her head angrily. 'I can't believe no-one in the crowd stopped to help you.'

 

'They were distracted,' he says. He can't remember any faces of those people who unwittingly saved his life, just the sheer _fury_ of the mob. 'Has there been any word about...?' He looks at her expectantly.

 

'Uncle's got men out searching the city,' Athena says. 'If he's still here, they'll find him.'

 

Apollo doubts that, privately. Typhon would be an idiot to stay within Uncle's reach. He has no doubt as to what Uncle will do if he is caught, however, and rather hopes the man will escape. Uncle is terrible in his vengeance. And yet if Typhon escapes and some other long-lost relative comes to the city for vengeance, what have all their efforts been worth? This is too much to think about for one day. 'I'd better get started,' he says, gesturing at the stew. Arty and Athena refuse point-blank to help him eat it, but they do sit with him and cheer him on.

 

'No more,' he says, pushing his plate away. 'Even Hera can't expect me to eat more than three serves of that in a day.'

 

'You don't know Hera,' Athena says. Apollo looks at her plaintively and she relents. 'You're lucky that you're not at Father's. She'd make you eat the whole pot and watch you the whole time.'

 

'They wanted you to stay over there,' Arty adds. 'They thought you might be attacked again. I only talked them into letting you stay here by telling them you'd heal faster in a familiar place.'

 

'And there are men watching the front and back doors,' Athena says. 'In case you go out and think you're being followed.'

 

'Good to know,' Apollo says. He leans forward, and the girls huddle around the table. He tells them about the standoff with the mysterious killer. He remembers suddenly how the marker on the ouija board pointed to the letter _T_ , and how none of them were sure if they moved it. As is the general rule, the prediction only makes sense in retrospect.

 

'I've been going through the family files,' Athena says when he's finished. 'If there was anything substantial about the rest of the family, it's been destroyed, but I found an old album.' She pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket and shows it to them: a very old photograph, from when they were a new technology. 'I think those are Father's parents,' she says, pointing to a couple. 'The rest are the extended family. He runs his eye along the list of names, but there's no mention of Typhon-- of course, he'd be too young. He wonders who among the assembled people died when Uncle took the city, and who fled. He wonders if any of them are alive now.

 

'We're a wonderful family, aren't we?' he says tiredly.

 

'You should rest,' Arty says. 'You look done in.'

 

'I've been keeping you up,' Athena says. 'Sorry about that. I'll come back tomorrow, is that all right?'

 

'That's fine,' he says, getting up. 'Oh, and Athena--'

 

'Pal,' she corrects him lightly. 'You've earned it.'

 

'Pal,' Apollo corrects himself, 'Have you heard from--'

 

'Not since the storm,' Pal says quickly. 'I was busy with Arty and you, but I saw him talking to Uncle, and then a car drove up and took him away.' She leaves him feeling thoroughly alarmed.

 

'He'll be all right,' Arty says, helping him up the stairs to his attic. She sounds hopeful rather than confident. 'He's one of us. He's family.'

 

That doesn't comfort him at all. _Look at what we do to our family,_ he thinks as he falls asleep.

 

...

 

It takes him three days to get through the rest of Hera's stew. By then his wound has fully closed up and he's only wearing one layer of bandage over it. He carefully tests the limits of its strength, finding that a teacup is acceptable but a book is painful. He spends most of his time in bed reading where he can soak up the sunlight. Arty talks him into walking up and down the street with her, but he keeps tensing at sudden movements, and the feeling of being watched doesn't get any better when the guards are friendly.

 

On the third day Thalia, Erato and Euterpe arrive on their doorstep. 'Go on, we'll look after him,' he hears Thalia say to Arty. 'We know your new girls are coming next week, _go_.' She leaves with a hasty goodbye.

 

'What on _earth_ did you think you were doing, getting into a fight like that?' Euterpe says mock-sternly as she frogmarches him downstairs. 'It wasn't about another girl, was it?'

 

'I was mugged,' he says with as much dignity as he can muster. Euterpe laughs and lets it go.

 

'You're awake!' Erato says as they enter the kitchen. 'We brought grapes. You're meant to bring grapes for sick people, aren't you? Well, we brought them anyway.'

 

'Anything that's not beef stew,' Apollo says, taking the bunch gratefully. Erato looks confused, and he tells them about Hera's gift.

 

'But it's working,' Thalia says, looking at him approvingly. 'You've got some colour back in your cheeks. You frightened Artemis half to death, you know.' She sighs. 'Well, at least you're on the mend now. And we're here to keep you entertained while she's out running errands.'

 

Entertain him they do. Euterpe reads him the most interesting articles that he missed, her voice turning even financial news into a fascinating story. He apologises to Thalia and assures her that he did enjoy the poem about the fish. 'Just wait until you hear the one I've written about crabs,' she says with a grin. 'You're coming along on tuesday night, aren't you?'

 

'Yes,' he says, 'I suppose I am.' It will be good to be back at the poetry club, a sign that life is returning to normal.

 

Erato repeats gossip from the dancehalls and the debutante balls. He is soon completely lost in the names, but it's entertaining until she falls silent. 'And then there's...' She trails off.

 

He can only think of one person that would make her stop. 'What about Marpessa?' he says, finding it quite easy to sound offhand.

 

'She's, well, she's got married,' Erato says, stumbling over her words. 'Don't take it too hard, Apollo, she looked so happy when she was coming down the aisle with Idas...'

 

'Did she?' he says wistfully. 'Well, best of luck to them.'

 

Erato stares at him. 'Who are you, and _what_ have you done with Apollo?' she asks flatly.

 

'Oh stop it,' he says, smiling at her surprise. 'Maybe I wasn't in love with her after all. Maybe it was just spring fever.'

 

'Told you so,' Thalia says very quietly from behind her newspaper.

 

'And I'm sure I'll find the right girl for me one day,' he says grandly. 'Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. Who knows?'

 

'Told you that too,' Thalia says, and _that_ he pointedly ignores.

 

By the time Arty comes home he is feeling like his old self, and also rather tired. The girls leave, promising to keep him entertained until he's fully recovered. 'Even at night,' Thalia assures him. 'We'll send Ranie over and you can hear her talk all about stars and comets and moon phases.'

 

'Or we'll send Clio over if you're having trouble sleeping,' Erato adds.

 

Arty flops down on a chair. She looks excited and also exhausted. 'How are your girls?' he says.

 

'The new Arktoi don't start until next week, thank goodness,' she says. He gets up to make them tea, and she watches him anxiously as he handles the kettle. 'You're feeling better?' she says, accepting the cup of tea he brings her.

 

'It's still a bit sore,' he admits, 'But I can use it properly now. I'll be good as new in a few days.'

 

'That's good,' Arty says. She takes a sip of tea and makes a face. 'Polly, you've put _sugar_ in this.'

 

'Sorry, that's mine,' he says, swapping the cups. They drink in silence for a moment, until Arty puts her cup down.

 

'If you're feeling better, you'll have to go and talk to Uncle,' she says. Something in her voice makes him look up.

 

'What's happened?' he says.

 

'Didn't Thalia tell you?' she says. He shakes his head. 'Well, I suppose you know she and her sisters work at a place called the Bacchanalia?'

 

'Yes, of course,' he says. 'They were then when I went to find Dionysus, what about it?'

 

'It seems he's... moving on,' Arty says uncomfortably. 'Thalia told me he'd signed the deeds for the building over to her. He wouldn't say why, but he asked her to keep the place running until he returned.'

 

' _Returned?_ ' Apollo echoes. 'Where's he going?'

'He wouldn't say that either,' Arty says.

 

Why didn't Thalia _tell_ him? He remembers how animated they all were, almost desperately so. He stands up, making tea slop onto the table. 'I'm going to go and see him,' he says angrily. _Someone_ is going to explain what's going on to him, and it might as well be the man who's at the centre of it.

 

Arty springs to her feet and blocks the kitchen door. 'Polly, you _can't_ go and see him, not at this time of night!'

 

'Not Dionysus, Uncle!' he snaps. 'Pal said they talked after I'd been stabbed, and then a car came and took him away. This is all Uncle's doing, and it's not right!'

 

'You can't go and see Uncle at this time of night either!' Arty says angrily. 'It's half past six, Polly, and it's an hour's walk at least. What if you're attacked again?' She looks up at him pleadingly.

 

He's quite sure that Pal is going to box his ears if he makes Arty cry again. 'Very well,' he says stiffly, sitting back down. 'I'll go and see him first thing tomorrow.'

 

...

 

'Ah, Apollo,' Hera says, gesturing him inside. Arty has walked with him all the way to Uncle's house, but he's convinced her that he can make his way home by himself. He needs to do this alone. 'I hope you're feeling better?'

 

'Yes, very well,' he says. 'Thank-you for the stew. It was delicious. I'd like to talk to my uncle, if he's available.'

 

'Of course,' Hera says smoothly. 'Will you wait here for a moment?' She leaves him in the sitting room and returns after a few minutes. 'He'll see you now,' she says, and guides him down the hallway.

 

Uncle's office is filled with solid, heavy furniture and books on shelves that look as though they've never been read. He sits with his back to the window, so that on a sunny day he seems to radiate light. Apollo is glad that it's cloudy. Hera follows him into the room, closing the door behind her, which surprises him. Uncle motions him to sit and gives his own chair to his wife. He paces up and down the room as they talk.

 

Apollo clears his throat. 'Firstly,' he says, taking the photograph out of his jacket, 'I need to return this.' Hera takes it from him and looks at her past self, resplendent in peacock feathers.

 

'Thank-you,' she says. Uncle looks over her shoulder and his eyes light up.

 

'That takes me back,' he says fondly. 'Must've been about your age when that was taken, back before...'

 

'Before you took over the city,' Apollo finishes for him.

 

Uncle and Hera look at him in unison, their gazes pinning him to his seat. 'I think you'd better tell us the whole story,' Uncle says.

 

'Arty and Pal have told you, haven't they?' he says, caught off guard.

 

'Yes, they have,' Hera agrees. 'But since they missed a rather vital part of the story, I think we ought to hear it from you.'

 

Apollo admits defeat and begins with the morning Arty woke him up and dragged him out to breakfast with Athena and Dionysus. He looks for some flicker of emotion as he talks about their joint investigation, but Uncle has a good poker face, and Hera has spent half her life wearing a mask of calm interest. When he finishes with being stabbed and passing out in the street, they exchange a glance.

 

'He called himself Typhon?' Uncle says. Apollo nods. Uncle frowns. 'I don't remember fighting him,' he says, and Apollo shudders inwardly. _They killed my brothers and my sisters when they stood, and took the city with the blood caked on their hands._

 

'He was the last one born in the city,' Hera says. 'He would have only been a few months old when we took over.'

 

'If he's mad enough to still be in the city, we'll find him,' Zeus says decidedly. 'And when we do, I'll make sure he pays for what he did,' and he nods at Apollo's arm.

 

'You're going to kill him,' Apollo says flatly.

 

Zeus frowns at him. 'What do want me to do, send him flowers?'

 

'Let him go,' Apollo says. 'He's wounded all over, I saw the marks. The crowd drove him off, and he knows you'll be doubly protected from now on. He won't try again.'

 

'He _attacked_ you,' Hera says coldly. 'It was a threat to my husband and an insult to our family. We cannot allow him to leave unpunished.'

 

Apollo feels sick at being the excuse for more killing. 'And what about the five people he killed?' he says angrily, looking between them. Somewhere in the last few days he has lost his fear of Zeus and his awe of Hera. 'Are you going to kill him another five times for them? Or don't they matter? I suppose they don't, they're not _family_.' He spits the words out, but Zeus looks unmoved.

 

'You're young, Apollo,' he says. 'If you live to my age you'll understand that showing mercy now only causes problems later.'

 

Apollo looks at him, appalled. 'Didn't this whole business _start_ because you didn't show mercy when you took the city over?'

 

Zeus scowls. 'Don't you _dare_ presume to judge me, boy.'

 

'You're young, but you ought to know the world doesn't work like that,' Hera says, frowning. 'Dionysus said the same things, but we taught you better.'

 

'You've talked to Dionysus?' Apollo says, dropping the other argument for now. 'Where is he?' Hera is silent and he assumes the worst. 'What have you done with him?' he demands.

 

'Why, nothing,' Zeus says mildly. 'He's family, and we'll see to it that no harm comes to him while he remains in the city.'

 

'He's leaving?' Apollo says stupidly. _Moving on,_ Arty said, and he wonders now at whose behest.

 

'We agreed that it would be prudent for him to stay out of sight until all this dies down,' Hera says smoothly.

 

Apollo looks at her, aghast. 'You're _exiling_ him? That's completely unfair!'

 

'Apollo,' Zeus says warningly, but he's past self-preservation now.

 

'We wouldn't have worked out that it was Typhon doing the killings if not for him! And if it wasn't for him you'd probably be dead now! He's family! He's not going to rat us out!'

 

Hera frowns. 'Apollo--'

 

'Don't you understand what you're _doing?_ ' Somehow he is on his feet. 'You're going to make it happen all over again! If you exile him he'll grow old and bitter and he'll raise his children to hate you and one day one of them will come back to the city and try to kill you again! And one of us will kill them, and one of their family will kill one of us, and it's going to keep going on and on! It's never going to _stop!_ ' He realises he's been shouting. 'It's never going to stop, is it?' he says weakly.

 

'If you would let me finish,' Hera says coolly, 'We agreed that it would be best for everyone involved to keep a low profile until this dies down. When we spoke to Dionysus he said the same as you, although with more clarity and less volume.' She looks at him witheringly and he sits down again meekly.

 

'He asked our permission to leave the city and seek out any of Typhon's relatives that were left,' Zeus continues. 'He wants to go and talk to them, offer reconciliation, if any of them will accept it.'

 

'Oh,' Apollo says. 'Er, well...'

 

'So there's no need to trouble yourself,' Hera says, standing up. She ushers him out of the office. 'From now on you'll act as though nothing happened,' she says as he follows her down the hall. 'You've done well. We won't forget it.' He remembers with a jolt how they rewarded Herakles, by bringing him into the inner family circle. He doesn't even want to imagine being married to Eris.

 

'Do you know when he's leaving?' he says as she opens the front door. 'Dionysus, that is. I'd like to wish him luck.'

 

Hera looks at him with something almost like pity. 'It's best if you're not seen together,' she says, and shuts the door.

 

Apollo mentally curses the air blue. He walks with as much dignity as he can muster until he turns the corner, then his shoulders slump. Everything will go back to normal. How wonderful. He passes a crowded cafe and a roar of laughter breaks out. He revels in it for a moment and then it passes, leaving him cold. He should be grateful that Zeus hasn't decided to add to his wounds, after all the deception. He wonders how long they'll have him watched.

 

Arty isn't home when he lets himself in, but there's a letter tucked into the crack between door and wall. _Apollo_ it says in deep red ink, and he opens it as he pushes the door closed behind him.

 

There's only a few lines, written in a curving hand in the same scarlet ink. _A long sea voyage is good for the soul,_ it says. _The Swan, Pier 7, 6.30 tonight._ An open pomegranate has been drawn where a signature should go.

It falls from his hand, and he's halfway up the street before it reaches the floor.

 

...

 

He nearly skids off the docks and into the sea trying to stop running when he finally reaches Pier 7. After some desperate flailing of limbs that would make Terpsichore proud he straightens up and tries to regain his dignity. People are making their way to and fro between the ship and the quay. It's a small ship, good enough for a short sea voyage, but he wouldn't trust it in a storm. He hopes not to run into any more storms soon.

 

'What are you _doing?_ ' he hears Dionysus say, and spins around. They're standing near where he almost fell in, watching him with amusement (Pal), exasperation (Arty) and confusion (Dionysus). Dionysus looks at him with almost the same expression as when he turned up at the Bacchanalia.

 

'What am _I_ doing?' Apollo echoes. 'What are _you_ doing?'

 

Dionysus looks around them at the docks, the sea, the people. 'Saying goodbye,' he says mildly.

 

'And you were just going to _leave?_ ' Apollo looks at him wildly. 'Without telling me? Without _any_ explanation?'

 

Dionysus sighs. 'I didn't plan to,' he says. 'But after I talked with Zeus and Hera I thought it would be best to leave as soon as possible.'

 

'And you couldn't have told me after I woke up?'

 

'With Zeus' guards crawling all over Delos Street?'

 

'You could have sent a message!'

 

'I think we should find somewhere slightly more private to talk,' Pal says loudly, and leads them away until they find an empty dock. Arty and Pal politely stand a few yards away, so they can at least pretend they're not being overheard.

 

'Why didn't you come and see me?' Apollo demands. 'Why didn't you explain? I heard about all this from Thalia and Arty, for god's sake!'

 

Dionysus is looking increasingly wretched. 'I thought it would be easier to move on if we had a clean break,' he says. 'How did you find me, anyway? The girls swore they hadn't told you.'

 

Betrayal upon betrayal. 'I was left a message,' Apollo says coldly.

 

Dionysus runs a hand through his hair in frustration. 'Mother,' he says with a sigh.

 

'Well, I'm here now, so you can bloody well explain all this.' Apollo crosses his arms, waiting.

 

'Explain what?' Dionysus looks tortured. 'Do I really have to say it?' Apollo waits. 'I didn’t think you’d want to see me again.'

 

' _What?_ ' Apollo says flatly.

 

'I left you to face that-- man in the street,' Dionysus says wretchedly. ' You were ready to fight him to the death to protect the family, and I abandoned you. You almost died because I was such a coward. I didn’t think you’d ever want to speak to me again, if you ever woke up.'

 

'What are you talking about?' Apollo says, aghast. 'If it wasn't for that crowd he would have finished me off! That _was_ your doing, wasn't it?' Dionysus nods tersely. 'You saved my life,' he says fervently.

 

Dionysus laughs bleakly. 'That's easy to say after the fact. Did you really think that when he was trying to kill you and nobody else was there?'

 

Apollo thinks for a moment. Dionysus deserves the honesty. 'Yes,' he says. 'You told me to stall him until you came back. I believed you.'

 

'I should have been there,' Dionysus mutters, shaking his head.

 

'Look,' Apollo says impatiently, 'If you'd been there, he would have killed both of us and then gone after Zeus and Arty and Pal and anyone else he could get his hands on. Do you know Arty says _heroic_ as though it means _stupid?_ I was being heroic, so you had to be sensible. And it worked, didn't it?'

 

'For a certain value,' Dionysus says. He looks at Apollo's arm. 'How is it?'

 

'Getting better,' Apollo says offhandedly. 'I'll be fine.' They stand together silently at the dock. 'I know why you're leaving,' he says suddenly. 'Zeus and Hera told me you went to talk to them.'

 

Dionysus raises his eyebrows. 'Oh?'

 

'They told me you said the same things as I did, with more clarity and less volume.' Dionysus laughs at that. 'I wanted to wish you good luck.'

 

'Thanks,' Dionysus says, 'I think I'll need it.' He sighs, looking over the sea. 'I've got a few leads from Father and Uncle, but they're years old now. I'm heading off the edge of the map.'

 

'How long will you be?' Apollo says. Dionysus shrugs.

'Do you, er, need any help?' The question forms in his mouth before his brain is quite aware of it.

 

Dionysus blinks at him. 'What did you say?'

 

'I can help, if you want. With this,' Apollo gestures to the ship. 'I know you said you work better alone, but--'

 

'You really want to spend months if not years trying to find long-lost relatives who might try to kill us?' Dionysus says, looking astonished. ' _Why?_ '

 

If he's completely honest, there are a number of reasons why. 'Because I want to,' he says, choosing the best one. 'Maybe if we do a good job, nobody else will be killed.'

 

'But you've got...' Dionysus sweeps his hand across the scene of the docks, Arty, and Pal. 'Your whole life is here.'

 

'I think it's about time I expanded my horizons,' Apollo says decidedly. He offers his hand. Dionysus stares at it for a moment, then takes it, shaking it firmly. He looks somewhat dazed, but incredibly pleased. They walk back to where Arty and Pal are standing, and Apollo's mouth suddenly goes dry. He has no idea how he's going to explain this to her.

 

'Arty,' he says, 'Er...'

 

Arty merely turns to Pal. ' _You,_ ' she says, 'owe me a dollar.'

 

He stares at them, appalled. 'You _bet_ on this?'

 

'Yes, and look what you've done,' Pal says grumpily, passing Arty a handful of coins. 'I counted on you to be sensible.'

 

He hears Dionysus snort next to him, and Arty isn't even bothering to hide her grin. 'I'm heroic,' he says loftily. 'Dionysus is the sensible one.'

 

'Well, good luck to you both,' Pal says. She inclines her head, and Dionysus follows her a little way, leaving him alone with Arty.

 

'Arty,' he says, trying to break it gently, 'I know this is very sudden, but--' He stops as she hands him a suitcase.

 

'I've packed you some clothes and a bit of money,' she says. 'I couldn't find your poems so you'll have to make up some new ones.' She laughs at his expression. 'I _know_ you, Polly. You've been moping the last few days, even if you didn't know it. This is what you need.'

 

'But,' he says, 'You'll be all alone...'

 

'Of course not,' Arty says fondly. 'I've got Pal, and my Arktoi, and Thalia says she'll take me down to the Bacchanalia one evening--' She laughs at the look on his face. 'I'll be fine.'

 

'Will you miss me?' he says plaintively.

 

'You idiot, _of course_ I'll miss you,' she says fiercely, nearly crushing him with her hug. 'But you'll write to me, won't you? And you won't be gone forever.'

 

'Of course I won't,' he promises.

 

'Oh, and you'll need this,' Arty says, handing him a crumpled envelope. 'I found it in the door this morning.' He's not surprised to see _Artemis_ written in deep red ink. Inside a note says _For your brother, if he chooses to follow my son._ A pomegranate has been drawn at the lower left edge. A piece of card in the envelope turns out to be a ticket for the boat, already paid.

 

'Thank-you,' he says. The boat sounds its horn. 'Well, we'd better...'

 

'Come on,' Arty says, taking his arm. The four of them walk back to Pier 7, stopping at the gangway. He gets a quick embrace from Pal, who smiles at him, and another fierce hug from Arty. 'Take care of him for me,' she says to Dionysus. 'Don't let him go mooning after any other girls.'

 

'Will do,' Dionysus says cheerfully. With a last smile they walk up the gangway and onto the ship itself. Dionysus leads him up onto the deck, and the engines send the boat rumbling. They wave to Arty and Pal until they're out of sight.

 

'This is strictly business, you know,' Dionysus says mock-sternly as they lean on the railing, a cool salty wind ruffling their hair. 'There will be absolutely no mooning and no poetry allowed.'

 

'I reserve the right to work on my poems, but I won't make you read them,' Apollo concedes. 'And I'm ready to give up mooning over girls, it's so exhausting. Marpessa got married,' he elaborates, seeing the other man look puzzled.

 

' _Ah,_ ' Dionysus says knowingly, 'I _knew_ you had an ulterior motive.'

 

'I'll throw you off the boat if you're not careful.'

 

'That's rich talk coming from a man who nearly fell into the sea. What were you going to do, swim after me?'

 

Their voices recede across the water and die away before they reach Artemis and Athena. The women watch, arms linked, until the boat disappears behind one of the headlands that shelter the bay. They look at each other and smile. Then, laughing, they walk away from the docks and into the streets, their city turning golden in the evening light.


End file.
